Indian Film

Indian Film

Erik Barnouw and S. Krisknaswamy

COURT I SY CINKMAITIF^UI- 1 RAN£AISF.

Bombay: Calcutta: Madras: Mew Delhi

Indian Film

Orient Longmans

India, one of the most prolific film-making nations, has produced sev-
eral films counted among the world’s finest. . . Eaily in 1903 India
completed its fiftieth year of lea lure production; its activity in short
films goes back to the nineteenth century. . . 1'he Indian film indus-
try, alone among major film industries, developed in a colonial set-
ting. It was outproducing Great Britain by the mid-1920s. . . An un-
usually strict film censorship, established in the colonial era, remains
characteristic ol tire Indian film scene. . . The Indian film is unique
in its extensive use ol dance and song, olten in operatic loims. In this,
Indian fidi ^ nart ol a ihcatiical tradition that goes back to Sanskrit
drama. . . Although Indian sound films have been produced in quan-
tity since 1931, more than twenty years went by beloie a producer
dared to make one without songs or dances. . . Indian film-lan publi-
cations are innneious and some have hug' circulations. . . flic Indian
film industry, unlike the American and Japanese industries, has a
polyglot home market and makes feature films in more than a do/cn
Indian languages. . . India, like scxctal other Asian countries, re-
quires theatres to show an approved iulormational film at every show-
ing. To supply such films the government, has devclo^ 1 a large pub-
lit -sec tor film unit. . . Tension between government and the private
film industry has been frequent in recent years. . Indian-language
films have a rcgulai export ma: ket in many countries of Asia and Af-
rica and arc a source of Indian prestige in the Afro-Asi.m world. . .
Songs Irom Indian films, often critic i/ed by Indian musicologists as
hybrid and Westerni/cd, are Afro-Asian radio favorites; a few have
been hits in the Sovie. Union. . . In recent years there have been Ilal-
ian-Indian, IJ.K.-Indian, USSR-Inclian, and U.S.-Indian co-pioduc-
tions in India. They have been the subject ol high dip 1 ' nary and
sometimes tension.

It was the consideration ol such hn is that led us to make the study
that became Indian Film. We first dist ussed the project during 1960-
61 when Mr. Krishuaswamy was obtaining bis master’s degree at Co-

NEW DAY

128

136 A new enquiry
144 INDUSTRY

148 A star, six songs, three dances
160 Ordinary, decent, supcrdecent
164 Pageants for our peasants
169 “O divine Tamil”

177 A 40 percent loss
180 Film society

184 FEUD

199 There air other kinds of music
206 For the mass of the people

211 WIDE WORLD

213 Young man with a script
236 Cinema at the summit
253 T his showing sold out

271 CONCLUSION

281 MAP OF PLACES MENTIONED

282 appendix: Indian Film Production Statistics, by Language

283 interviews
285 bibliography
293 index

vm

Illustrations

Preliminary Sketches by Satyajit Ray for Pather Panchali (Song
of the Road) on title pages

4 First Indian Film Advertisement, Times of India, July 7, 1896

13 Phalke at the Camera, 1912

15 Rajah Harischandra Actors Including Salunkc, Male Heroine

16 Dadasaheb Phalke at Work on the Script for Rajah Haris-
chandra (King Harischandra), 1912

77 Phalke Building Sets for Rajah Harischandra

17 Phalke Editing Rajah Harischandra

19 Mrinalini Phalke as the Boy Krishna in Kaliya Mardan (Slay-
ing of the Serpent), 1919

22 From Ganguly’s Book Ilhahei Abhihaktae (Experiments in
Expression), 1915

23 From Ganguly’s Sequel, A mar Desk (My Country), ca. 1920

27 Handbill for England Returned, 1921

32 “Glorious Collar" in Devoted Wife, 1932

33 Miss 1933 , with Gohar and E. Billimoi ia, 1933

33 Gohar in Rajputani (Rajputani), 1934

58 Discord of Tongues: Indian Language Areas

73 Vidyapathi (Vid)apathi), with Chaya Devi and Kanan Devi,
1937

77 From a Baiua Notebook: The Prince Writes a Part for Himself

78 Bhagya Chakra (Wheel of Fate), with Uma Sashi and Pahari
Sanyal, 1935

79 Maya (Illusion), with Pahari Sanyal, 1936

81 P. C. Barua: The Young Prince

81 P. C. Barua and Kanan Devi in Mukti (Liberation), 1937

84 Ayodhyecha Raja (The King of Ayodhya), with Durga Khote,
1932

86 Amur Jyoti (Eternal Light), 1936

87 Amar Jyoti, with Durga Khote, 1936

90 The Light of Asia, with Himansu Rai and Sita Devi, 1925

91 A Throw of Dice, with Himansu Rai and Sita Devi, 1929
95 Devika Rani in Karma (Fate), 1933

97 Achhut Konya (Untouchable Girl), with Devika Rani and
Ashok Kumar, 1936
106 Sikander (Alexander), 1911

108 Subrahmanyam’s Balayogini (Child Saint), 1936

109 Subrahmanyam’s Thyagabhoomt (Land of Sacrifice), 1938

110 B. N. Reddi’s Vande Matharam (Honor Thy Mother), 1939

1 13 A Birthday Party at Bombay Talkies for Devika Rani, ra. 1938
119 Seva Sadan (Service Home), 1938
127 The Journey of Dr. Kotnis, 1946
146 Shantaram's Shakuntala (Shakuntala), 1943
149 Jha?mk Jhanak Payal Bajc (Jangle, Jangle, Sound the Bells),
1955

154 Awara (The Vagabond), 1951

155 Raj Kapoor in Shri 420 (Mr. 420) or Gospodin 420, 1955

155 Raj Kapoor’s Jagte Ratio (Keep Awake), 1957

156 Do Bigha Zamin (Two Acres of Land), 1953

157 Dilip Kumar in Dcvdas (Devdas), with Vyjayanthimala, 1955

158 Nutan as Sujata (Sujata), with Sunil Dutt, 1959

166 Vasan's Chandralekha (Chandralckha), 1948

167 Meiyappan’s Demon Land, 1948

173 Ramachandran's Xadodi Mannan (The Vagabond King), 1958
194 Radha and Krishna, 1957

194 This Our India, 1961

195 Pilot Project, 1962

215 Page from Satyajit Ray Script for Pather Panchali

227 Satyajit Ray’s Pather Panchali, released 1956

228 Satyajit Ray’s Aparajito (The Unvanquished), 1957

229 Satyajit Ray’s Devi (Goddess), 1960

230 Satyajit Ray’s Abh jan (Expedition), 1962

231 Satyajit Ray’s Kanchanjanga (Kanchanjanga), 1962
231 Shooting Kanchanjanga

236 Indian Delegation in the USSR, 1951

237 Indian Delegation at the White House, 1952
237 Indian Delegation in Hollywood, 1952

x

260 Mehboob Khan’s Mother India , starring Nargis, 1957

261 Sivaji Ganesan and Ranga Rao in Annayin Anai (A Mother’s
Command), 1958

263 Girl and Grandmother in Tapa f> Sinha’s Hamuli Banker
Upakatha (Folk Talcs of the River B* ml), 1962
279 Shantaram’s Strce (Woman), 1962

Indian Film

Note

I rupee — 16 annas. Since 1957 India has been converting to a deci-
mal system— 1 rupee — 100 nayc paise—but the “anna” pcisists in
popular language. In trims of Amnican currenc y the rupee has been
appioxnnately 21 f since Indian independence; it was between >0<f
and 4 Of dining caihei decades covered by this booh. I'oi appioxi-
malc\ icipid calculation it i\ 0 suggcstrd the leadei use the formula SI
— Rs. 3 foi the years 1S96-/94S, and the foimula SI — Rs. 5 for the
yea is 1919-01.

Beginnings

Many Western film goers first became awaic of India as a film-pro-
ducing nation • « a result of the international triumphs of Sat)ajit
Ray. T hese began when Pother Vatu hah (Song ol the Road), the
first film directed l>) Ray, came fioni obscurity to win the “best hu-
man document'’ award at the Itlafi Cannes film festival, and contin-
ued as the film won awards at the S.ui Francisco, Manila, Vancou-
ver, and Stratlord, Ontaiio, festivals, in HJ57 its s< rel Apmnpto
(T he Unvanquished) won the Golden Lion award at . enicc as w r cll
as the Sel/nick Golden Laure 1 Trophy in the United States. Two
veais later the final film of the trilogy, A pur Samar (The World ol
Apu), took another astonishing sequence of prizes.

T hese wcic b) no means the first Indian films to win foieign festi-
val recognition. But Ray's trilogy, unlike earlier cinrics, followed
lhc«*c wetories with c 'miner cial runs on every continent, and so it
was the Indian films ol Satyajit Ray that finally captured the atten-
tion of many average filmgoers of the Western world, and von from
many the tribute of surprise: “India: I didn’t know they made
films."

For the surprised, further jolts W'-ie in store. Western writers on

1

film topics now began to supply occasional pertinent facts. As critic
and film historian Arthur Knight put it, “After India’s Satyajit Ray
won top honors at Cannes . . . and at Venice ... it suddenly be-
came impossible to ignore completely the Indian film industry any
longer.” 1 Thus Western readers learned that the Indian film indus-
try not only existed but was, in fact, huge. By 1958, in the produc-
tion of feature films, India was revealed to be outproducing the
United States and every European film-producing nation. Statistics
for that year showed the following number of feature films pro-
duced: 2

Japan

516

Italy

137

India

295

USSR

130

United States

288

France

126

Hong Kong

240

United Kingdom

121

There were further surprises. Film history has been written largely
by European and American writers. For most of them, the Asian
film has scarcely existed. 3 Yet the story of film, in various parts of
Asia, goes back almost to the beginnings of film history, and contrib-
utes some arresting sidelights to its world development.

A train arriving

When the brothers Louis and Auguste Lumfere unveiled their
cinematographe in the basement of the Grand Cafe in Paris on De-
cember 28, 1895, they apparently felt an urgent need for rapid
exploitation. A fear that the novelty of the invention might be short-
lived, and awareness of the activity of rival entrepreneurs, com-
bined to press them to rapid action. Soon after the Paris demonstra-
tion various teams of Lumfere agents, each equipped with the

1 Knight, The Liveliest Art , p. 234.

* Basic Facts and Figures, pp. 146 — 47 .

■Bardiche and Brasillach, ifc their History of Motion Pictures (1935; Eng. tr.,
1938), gave four paragraphs to Japan, one to India. Rotha in The Film Till
Now (1930, 1949, 1951 eds.) gave three paragraphs to Japan, one to India; in a
1960 edition Richard Griffith added to this. Knight in The Liveliest Art (1957)
gave five pages to Japan, two sentences to India; he amplified this in a 1959
edition. A milestone in Western recognition of Asian film development was
the appearance of Anderson and Richie, The Japanese Film, in 1959.

2

The life-like manner in which the various views were portrayed on the
screen by the aid of a powerful lantern, and the distinctness with which
each action of moving bodies were [s/V] brought out showed to what an
advanced stage the art of photography and the magic lantern had been
brought, something like seven or eight hundred photographs being thrown
on the screen within the space of a minute. The views being of a varied
character found much favour, the more crowded scenes being applauded
by the audience. 8

The shows were advertised regularly in the Times of India . The
phrase “tonight entire change” appears in several advertisements.

By the end of July the showings had acquired two indigenous as-
pects. “Reserved boxes for Purdah Ladies and their Families” were
announced late in July. And a broad scale of prices was introduced.
For the first showing there had been a single admission price of one
rupee. Now prices ranged from a low of four annas to a high of two
rupees. 9 This wide price range was to remain a feature of film ex-
hibition in India, important to its future growth and range of ap-
peal.

In early August the drawing power of the attraction seems to have
waned. The Times of India editorially rebuked “our Parsee friends”
for not taking more interest in the unique event. 10 The addition of
“selections of suitable music under the direction of S. Seymour
Dove” does not seem to have helped, and August 15 was announced
as “positively tiif. last exhibition in Bombay.” A p* forrfiance of
The Pickpocket by the Thespian (dub— “Soldiers 8c Sailors Half
Price to Back Seats”— was already advertised fo v the following
week. 11

The Lumiercs’ sense of urgency was justified by events of the fol-
lowing months. In January, 1897, “Stewart’s Vitograph” (sic) came
to the Gaiety Theatre and apparently ran about a week. 1 ’ 2 In Sep-
tember the “Hughes Moto-Photoscope, the latest marvel in cinemat-
ographs,” began showings at various locations including fair-
grounds. 13 The following year brought a Professor Andeison and
Mile Blanche and their “Andersonoscopograph” exhibiting varied
items. 14 While Bombay was receiving these, Calcutta, at this time

9 Ibid., July 22, 1896. 0 Ibid., July 27, 1896. 10 Ibid.. August 5, 1896.

« Ibid., August 15. 1896. 13 Ibid., January 4, 1897.

» Ibid., September 15, 1897. 14 Ibid., December 26, 1898.

5

the capital of British India, was also visited by various expeditions,
including that of a Mr. Stevens who is said to have exhibited short
items at the Star Theatre after stage performances. 15

It seems clear, in spite of the four-anna seats and the attention to
purdah ladies, that these early showings attracted mainly British res-
idents, along with a few Indians “of the educated classes”— especially
those who identified their interests with those of the British. At the
same time, the impact on Indians who attended was crucially impor-
tant. Among those who saw the Lumiere exhibition was Harischan-
dra Sakharam Bhatvadekar, a Maharashtrian. According to his obit-
uary notice in a Bombay trade publication, 16 Bhatvadekar had
opened a photographic studio in Bombay about 1880. In 1896 he
was so “hypnotized” by the Lumiere showing that he ordered a mo-
tion picture camera from London, at a price of 21 guineas— prob-
ably the first imported. When it arrived the following year he pho-
tographed a wrestling match at Bombay’s Hanging Gardens, and
sent the film to London for processing. He had meanwhile bought
a projector and become an itinerant, open-air exhibitor of imported
films. Among these, months later, he was able to show his own
wrestling-match film. His second subject is said to have been the
training of circus monkeys. More important was his coverage of an
event, of December, 1901. An Indian student at Cambridge, R. P.
Paranjp/e, had won special distinction in mathematics, and his re-
turn to India was an occasion for wild jubilation and garlanding. It
was the sort of occasion that aroused nationalist emotions in Indian
hearts, and at the same time was noted with prideful interest by the
British. It thus received enormous attention and has won a place in
some Indian film chronologies as “the first newsreel event.” 17

In 1903 the durbar that celebrated the coronation of Edward VII
with oriental and occidental splendor was another event photo-
graphed and shown by Bhatvadekar. His work as pioneer exhibitor
Jed to a career as manager of Bombay's Gaiety Theatre— later re-

18 Atnriia, December 29, 1961. **

18 Indian Documentary, Vol. IV, Nos. 3-4 (1958).

17 See, for example, “Landmarks in Indian Film Story,’* in Indian Talkie , 1931-56,
pp. 17-18. R. P. Paranjpye eventually became vice-chancellor of the University
of Poona.

6

named the Capitol Cinema. He eventually gave up production for
exhibition and, perhaps in consequence, died with “quite a for-
tune." 18 Not all his fellow pioneers were similarly blessed.

Bhatvadckar’s career suggests the rapid pace of events. The trav-
eling missions from Europe and America were quickly followed by
importation of films, projectors, and other equipment. Some of the
missions, in fact, functioned as sales agents. Among the purchasers,
a number took up cinematography and began to turn out such items
as Poona Races *98 and Train Arriving at Bombay Station— both ad-
vertised in December, 1898. 19 The typical film showman of the time,
as elsewhere in the world, was the photographer-exhibitor.

Films continued to turn up in theatres, sometimes as supplements
to plays, concerts, or performances of magic. In Bombay, in 1898,
Carl Hertz, “absolutely the world’s greatest conjuror," offered film
items in color along with his magic show. In Calcutta, Hiralal Sen,
who purchased equipment in the same year, 20 photographed scenes
from some of the plays at the Classic Theatre; such films were shown
as added attractions after the stage performances. But the impor-
tance of such events was overshadowed, for the time being, by the
eruption of outdoor cinema shows, in tents or in the open air.

Tent to palace

The showman generally equipped himself with file’s for two or
three programs. Having exhausted the possibilities in one location,
he moved elsewhere. Showings in parks and empty lots of big cities
soon led to showings in smaller cities and towns and eventually to
the rural “raveling cinemas" still important in India.

Jamjctji Framji Madan (1856-1923), member of a Parsi family
that had moved from Bombay to Calcutta, became interested in the
theatre at an early age. Calcutta, as well as other of the larger In-
dian cities , was experiencing a rebirth of theatre. This had begun

18 Indian Documentary, Vol. IV, Nos. 3-4 (1958).

10 Times of India, December 26, 1898. Bardi*che and Brasillach, in History of Mo-
tion Pictures , p. 9, have commented: “Quite a number of trains arrived and de-
parted in the caily films.”

80 Chakrabartty, “Bengal’s Claim to Pioneership,” Dipali, April 8, 1939.

7

during the 1830s and had slowly gained momentum, although only
among educated strata of Indian society. Maclan started as prop boy
at Calcutta's Corinthian Hall, later toured other cities of India as an
actor, and eventually purchased the company in which he had
started. Madan, along with various relatives, was involved in innu-
merable enterprises. He was an importer of liquors, foods, and
pharmaceutical products, and dealt in insurance and real estate.
Throughout life he combined such activities successfully with his
theatrical interests.

In 1902, having purchased film equipment from an agent of Pa the
Frcres, he launched a “bioscope” show in a tent on the Maidan, the
green in the heart of Calcutta. 21 This was the beginning of what
was to turn into a film production-distribution-exhibition empire,
a powerful factor for three decades, not only in India but also in
Burma and Ceylon.

Another film magnate of later years, the venturesome Abdulally
Esoofally (1884-1957), likewise began as a tent showman. From 1901
to 19,07 he moved throughout southeast Asia, holding “bioscope”
showings in Singapore, Sumatra, Java, Burma, Ceylon; from 1908 to
1914 he continued his cinema travels in India. His tent was 100 feet
long and 50 feet wide, propped by four posts, and could hold a
thousand people. The short items shown were purchased outright by
Esoofally, according to the practice of the time, and were used till the
prints wore out.

I had to buy these bits at the rate of fid. per foot and 40 or 50 pictures com-
posed my full programme. The films, however small, provided a varied
fare. They included comedy gags, operas, travel films, sports events, etc. The
maximum length of those films ranged between 100 and 200 feet and only
in 1908 I remember to have shown my biggest films— 1,000 feet in length— in
my traveling cinema. When I started my bioscope shows in Singapore in
1901, little documentary films I got from London helped me a lot in at-
tracting people. A short documentary about Queen Victoria’s funeral and
another about the Boer War showing the British Commandcr-in-Chief Lord
Roberts' triumphant entry into Pretoria against the forces of Paul Kruger,
the President of the Transvaal Republic, proved wonderful draws. People

21 The date is variously given. J. J. Madan, as managing director of Madan Thea-
tres Ltd., gave 1902 as the starting date of Madan film enterprises, in testimony
before a government inquiry in 1927. Evidence , II, 829.

8

who had merely heard or read some vague reports about the war were
thrilled beyond description when they saw the famous figures of the Boer
War in action. 22

In 1914 Esoofally finally settled down by taking over, with a partner,
the Alexandra Theatre in Bombay; in 1918 they built the Majestic
Theatre, where they were later to premiere the first Indian talking
feature.

The imported films shown by early traveling showmen came from
many countries, but American and French films might come to
them via London distributors. Many were well worn before being
dumped on the Asian market. Worn prints remained, for decades,
a problem plaguing Asian exhibitors.

Throughout the early years the length of imported films grew rap-
idly. In the catalogues of one English producer, distributor, and
equipment manufacturer, James Williamson, films averaged GO— 7 5
feet in Lngti- in 1899 1. at ran to 280 feet in 1902. 2: * As films length-
ened they acquired, or aimed at, more substantial content. A “grand
cinema tographic programme” at Bombay's Gaiety Theatre in the
1901 Christmas 1 .ason ottered Life of Christ, “showing Birth, Mira-
cles, Trial, Sulh *ings, Crucifixion, Burial, Resurrection, and Ascen-
sion.” It also included, in what must suiely have been one of the
least merry of holiday programs, The Queen's Funeral Ptoeession
and Assassination of President McKinley . 2I

During the following years Europe and America • 'ocrienccd an
increase in productions based on literary classics. The i of the pre-
tentious Film d’Art, often lcaturing stage stars, began in 1907. For
several years products of this sort dominated European and Ameri-
can cinemas and also the cinemas establishing themselves on a per-
manent basis in the big cities of India. In Calcutta J. F. Madan built
the Elphinstone Picture Palace, the first of many Madan film thea-
tres, in 1907. During the 1910s he expanded steadily and by the end
of the decade had thnty-seven theatres. 25 In Bombay, after 1910,

--“Half a Century in Exhibition Line: Shii AIk* Malty Recalls Bioscope Days,” in
Indian Talkie , 193 1-56, pp. 121-22.

2:1 Low and Manvcll, History of the Ih it is h Film , 1S96-1906 , p. 45.

34 Times of Indio, December 23, 1901.

85 Evidence, 11,844.

9

the rivalry among film theatres, as reflected in the growing size and
fulsomeness of newspaper advertisements, grew intense.

Along with the stagy dramas, comics were now a booming attrac-
tion and would soon emerge from anonymity into stardom. A week
in September, 1912, found the Imperial Cinema in Bombay show-
ing The God of the Sun along with various Pathe items and “two
screaming comics.” The Alexandra Theatre had a two-hour show
including five “ripping comics." The America-India, apparently the
first theatre to install electric fans, offered The Mysteiy of Edwin
Drood, The Dance of Shiva, and “three real good bits of fun." The
Excelsior had an all-French program, while the Gaiety, “the
Rendez-vous of the Elite of Bombay," was announcing a season of
“London's latest successes by the Ambrosio, Lubin, Vitagraph,
American Bioscope, Nordisk, Urban, Pathe and other film com-
panies." 26

Clearly the film scene in India, as in other countries, was at this
time extremely international. France, headed by Pathe, was appar-
ently the leading source, but products of the United States, Italy,
England, Denmark, and Germany also competed for a share of the
Indian market. To this complex struggle a new element was about
to be added, and it came from a totally unexpected source.

Enter a shastri

•

Dhundiraj Govind Phalke, more generally known as Dadasaheb
Phalke, was born of a priestly family at Trimbkcshwar, in the dis-
trict of Nasik not far from Bombay, in 1870. Committed by birth to
be a shastri, a learned man, he was trained for a career as Sanskrit
scholar, in emulation of his father. But he early showed a feverish
interest in painting, play acting, and magic. The family moved to
Bombay when the father joined the teaching staff of Elphinstone
College, and this made it possible for young Phalke, at the comple-
tion of high school, to study at the Sir J. J. School of Art, a large in-
stitution in Bombay. Here he received a grounding in various arts
including photography. He had also, by now, become a skilled ma-
gician, which talent he later put to professional use. After further
88 Times of India , September 14, 1912.

10

art training at the Kala Bhavan 27 in Baroda and a period as pho-
tographer for the governmental Archaeological Department, he was
offered backing to start an Art Printing Press. He now settled down,
to all appearances, to a life of fine printing. He was married, and
raising a family.

His backers, to acquaint him with the latest printing processes,
especially in color work, arranged for him to take a trip to Germany.
The arrangement provided that Phalke must remain with the com-
pany at least a stipulated time after the journey, which he did. But
he already knew, when he returned, that a printing career would
not satisfy him. About 1910 he fell ill and for a time lost his eyesight.
On the return of his vision, he had an experience that determined
the course of his life.

At a Christmas cinema show he saw a Life of Christ. Before he
got home, a determination had formed in him. He asked his wife to
go with him to the next showing. Family tiadition has it that there
was no cash in the house, and money had to be borrowed from
neighbors for transportation and cinema tickets. Meanwhile Phalke
explained wha* was on his mind. He now knew what he must do
with his life. 28

As he had watched Life of Christ he had been thinking about the
possibilities of a film on Lord Krishna, most beloved of Hindu dei-
ties. The rescue of the infant Krishna from dcadlv perils, the pranks
of his boyhood, his many romantic involvements, lr, ; ve of'Radha
his later wisdom and exploits of valor, were already king cinema
form in the mind of Dadasahcb Phalke. Many currents of Phalke’s
life — priestly lineage, dramatic appetite, technical virtuosity-
merged in this project. By the time the film show was over, his wife
fully understood his plan and what it would involve, and she agreed.
She became, in fact, a most important collaborator.

There were family councils, in which various relatives voiced dis-
approval. The recklessness of the plan, which involved giving up
printing, appalled them. But in the end he went ahead. With help
from some, and funds raised by mortgaj. 'g his life insurance, he en-
gaged passage for England, to obtain equipment and guidance. He

27 Now the art department of the University «»f Baroda.

28 Interview, Neelakanth Phalke.

11

prepared for the trip by buying, at a Bombay bookstall, an ABC of
Cinematography , 20 apparently the work of the British film pioneer
Cecil Hepworth. In England Hepworth was one of the film makers
visited by Phalke.

Early in 1912 Phalke returned to India with a Williamson cam-
era, a Williamson perforator— film had to be perforated in the dark-
room before use— developing and printing equipment, raw film for
several months of work, and a collection of the latest film publica-
tions.

Phalke did not have enough funds for a major film so he began
with an intermediate project— economical but at the same time ex-
pressive of his inquisitive spirit. He decided on a short film in time-
lapse photography. In the Phalke home the precious camera, zeal-
ously guarded from the children by Mrs. Phalke— Saraswathi or
“Kaki” Phalke— was mounted before a pot of earth. Dadasaheb
Phalke worked out the mechanism for intermittent photography.
Finally friends, including a prospective financier, were invited to see
the result: a capsule history of the growth of a pea into a pea-laden
plant. The audience was astounded, and Phalke got his financial
backing. 30 His backer at this time was Nadkarni, Bombay dealer in
photographic goods. 31

Still postponing the crucial Krishna project, Phalke now decided
on a. slightly easier topic, likewise based on Indian mythology and
judged 'by Phalke to have powerful appeal. The story was that of
Harischandra, a king so devoted to truth and duty that for their sake
he sacrificed everything including wealth, kingdom, w r ife, and child-
but was rewarded in the end for his steadfastness. The story, from the
Mahabharata , w r as known to every Indian via uncounted centuries of
oral tradition.

The difficulties facing Dadasaheb Phalke must have seemed, at
times, insuperable. Although theatre and its sister art, the dance,
were supposed by the Hindus to have originated with the gods—
Brahma himself had ordered the first dramatic performance— and

39 Interview, Neelakanth Phalke.

"Suresh Phalke, "The Film Industry and Phalke," Hindustan Standard, Feb-
ruary 24, 1961.

81 Interview, Neelakanth Phalke.

12

MRINALINI PHALKE AS THE BOY KRISHNA IN Kciliyd Martian (SLAYING OF
THE SERPENT), 1919. HINDUSTAN FILM COMPANY

Fragments of a number of Phalke films have been preserved and
in 1950 a reel of the fragments was assembled by th** Indian 'Motion
Picture Producers Association. The over-all structure of each film
is forever lost, but the fragments show a fine pictorial sense and re-
markable technical resourcefulness. Like another magician who be-
came a film pioneer, Georges Mr lies, Phalke was a special-effects
genius, lie explored a vast range of techniques, including anima-
tion. He experimented with color, via tinting and toning. 41 He used
scenic models for a number of sequences, including the burning of
Lanka, for which he also burned down two full-sized sets. He took
interest in every detail of laboratory work. Having determined the
right timing for (lie printing of a sequ* nee, he set a metionome go-
ing to guide his wife: she turned the handle of the printer in time

41 Timing involved frame-by-frame brush work on the prim. Toning was done in
the developing baih; through one or another chemical, an entire sea sequence
was given a blue color, a lire sequence a red color.

19

with the metronome. He was often at odds with backers because he
poured time, energy, and money into technical experiments. Some-
times these diverted him from film production, as when he devel-
oped a soap formula and launched a small soap factory, losing
money on the venture. 4 -

Not all his experiments were technical. He persuaded a Maha-
rashtrian woman, Kamala, to play the leading role in Bhasmasur
Mohini, his second feature production. His own daughter Mrina-
lini played the boy Krishna in Kaliya Mar dan (Slaying of the Ser-
pent), produced in 1919. During the 1920s his company included a
number of women. Thus, although fear of stigma remained for
years a film industry problem in the casting of women’s roles,
Phalke took the first steps toward overcoming it.

In 1914 Phalke made a second trip to London, with his first three
films. The proprietor of the Bioscope arranged a showing for a film
industry group. The group must have been baffled by the content,
so alien to its own preoccupations. Rut it apparently treated Phalke
with considerable respect, and he was grateful for the attention he
received. 43 The Bioscope expressed the opinion that “Mr. Phalke
is directing his energies in the best and most profitable direction in
specializing upon the presentation by film of Indian mythological
drama.” 44

Although resembling Mclies in technical skill, Phalke was never
interested in amazement for its own sake. The material of his fea-
tures came from a mythology that had, for its audience, religious
meaning. To people unfamiliar with this material the films unques-
tionably seemed naive. To those raised on the tales of Hindu gods
and heroes, they opened a world of wonder. They earmarked for
the Indian film an area of subject matter that won for it an imme-
diate and powerful hold in India and neighboring countries— and
at the same time shut it off from others.

The mythological film was to dominate Indian production for
some years, but rival gepres would begin to compete for attention.
In the 1920s the film of modern background, the “social,” rose in
importance, and the Indian “historical” had a beginning. At the

42 Interview, Neclakanth Phalke.

43 Evidence, III, 879. 44 Bioscope, J

same time the “stunt film/’ inspired by the popular serials and by
the features of Douglas Fairbanks, became an obsession with In-
dian producers. During this decade Phalke gradually began to feel
like a stranger in the film world.

Rajah Harischandra, produced under the banner of Phalke's
Films, was launched on a capital of Rs. 15,000. 45 Its success appar-
ently made possible the subsequent productions of Phalke’s Films,
including several features and numerous “topicals” and scenic films.
As the company grew and its expenses rose, as new equipment was
needed, and as Phalke’s production ambitions grew, more capital
was required. About 1917 five new partners, including Mayashanker
Mulshanker Bhatt, a textile manufacturer, 40 entered the picture
and the company was reorganized as Hindustan Film Company.
Phalke soon quarreled with the new partners and for two years,
1920-21, ren'ml to Banaras. He then returned to Nasik, the quarrel
was resolved, and production resumed. But film tastes were chang-
ing rapidly, and increasing costs put a premium on rapid and steady
production. In 1927 Phalke retired from the Hindustan Film Com-
pany. The following year he told a government committee: “I have
retired, being disgusted with it— I do not care so much for money.
1 care more for technicality and first class production. I could not
succeed so I left it oft." 47

In 1931 he tried again. Backed once more by Mayash anker, Bhatt,
he produced Setu Bandhan (Bridge across the Sea). C ling at the
last moment of the silent eta, it was ill-timed. Phalke tried to salvage
it by postsynchronizing dialogue, the first such effort ’n India. Then
he made a talkie, Gangavatarcn (The Descent of Ganga), for an-
other company. But the tide was no longer with him. Phalke lived
until 1914. When he died at Nasik, on February 16 of that year, he
was almost forgotten, and a pauper. During his final months all
memory of his days of fame left him.

Phalke had laid the cornerstone of an industry. The Indian film
world measures its existence from the release of Rajah Hoischan-
dra, India's first feature, in 1913. That him- the spell it cast, the
crowds it drew -persuaded many a tent showman, many a cinema-

40 Evidence, III, 878.

4n Indian Cinematograph Year Hook, I9)S. 47 Evidence, III, 883.

21

PHOTOS
THAT LAUNCHED
A CAREER

22

tographer of topicals, many a backer, to take a fling at the feature
film. Within a few years film production broke out like a rash in
many parts of India.

Three Get Started

Dhiren Ganguly— sometimes known by a longer version of his name,
Dhirendra Nath Gangopadhaya— was born in 1893 in Calcutta. He
studied at the University of Calcutta, then went to nearbv Santini-
ketan to pursue art studies under its .lready famous founder,
Rabindranath Tagore, whose spirit found expression in poetry,
story, drama, essay, music, dance, and painting. From these studies
Ganguly went to a position in Hyderabad, in the heart of the Tn-

23

dian subcontinent, at an art college sponsored by the Nizam of
Hyderabad, one of the most powerful of Indian princes. Heir of a
long line of Nizams that went back two hundred years, this po-
tentate was virtually all-powerful in the vast area under his control.
A Muslim, he ruled over a population of 16 million, of whom about
13 million were Hindus. He was often referred to as the richest
man in the world and the si/e of his harem was a subject of rumor
and legend. Under the existing relationship with the British, the
Nizam of Hyderabad, like the more than 500 other rulers of
“princely states/' recognized the “paramountcy'' of the British, but
this scarcely affected his internal authority. Often benevolently
exercised, it was close to absolute. 1

At the Nizam's art college Ganguly soon acquired the title of
headmaster. But he had time for other projects. Interested in act-
ing and photography, he published in 1915 a book of photographs,
Bhaber Abhibaktac (Experiments in Expression), in which he him-
self appeared in a vast variety of roles: men and women of all ages
and all segments of society. In some photographs he appeared in
several guises. In one such photograph, for example, he was an ora-
tor on a soapbox and also each of the four people listening. The
book provided an outlet for a rich satiric sense and was instantly
popular, running to several editions and leading to additional vol-
umes. Bhaber Abhibaktac. was followed by A mar Desk (My Coun-
try) ancl two other sequels. 2

Ganguly sent the first of these books to J. F. Madan in Calcutta,
expressing interest in the new art of the motion picture. Madan im-
mediately encouraged him to come to Calcutta for a talk. Madan by
now owned all the theatres in Calcutta except one, the Russa, as
well as theatres in a number of other cities. He was an importer of
film equipment and films, which he distributed to his theatres and
others. Along with film interests he also had a Calcutta theatrical
company and was starting to produce films of various lengths based

1 Wallbank, A Short History , pp. 16-17.

•Aside from launching a film career, these volumes led later to employment of
Ganguly by the Calcutta Police Department to train detectives in the art of dis-
guise. Decades later he was recalled to give similar instruction to the police of in-
dependent India. Interview, Ganguly.

24

on its productions. He was also making occasional topicals. When
Ganguly came to see him about 1918, Madan was interested in
Ganguly s acquaintance with Tagore, and encouraged him to get
the poets permission to make a film based on Tagore’s play Sacri-
fice. Ganguly went to Tagore, who prompt <y gave his consent.

But the Sacrifice film was postponed by other developments. A
Calcutta businessman, P. B. Dutt, who had made substantial profits
Irom the manufacture of wooden buckets, wanted to invest in the
film field. He suggested to N. C. Laharrie, of Madan's organiza-
tion, that he leave Madan to form a new unit. Ganguly became a
member of this group. Named the Indo-British Film Company, it
consisted of four partners: Dutt as financier, Laharrie as general
manager, J. C. Sircar as cameraman, and Ganguly as “dramatic di-
rector," which apparently included writing. Ganguly promptly
wrote a story for them and by 1920 they were shooting it, with Gan-
guly playing the leading role. The film opened the following year in
the one film theatre in Calcutta not owned by Madan, the Russa,
where it was a resounding success. A zestful comedy, England Re-
turned., it satirized the pretensions of Indians back from England,
full of Western ideas; at the same time it satirized the conservatism
of those Indians to whom all new ideas were unwelcome. Impar-
tial in its laughter, it escaped the stigma of propaganda. Produced
at a cost of Rs. 20,000, it earned more than this in its three-month
run at the Russa. The Bombay rights were then so! to a Bombay
theatre group for Rs. 22,000. J. F. Madan, ever tilt businessman,
bought all remaining rights. 3 These profits put th'’ partners into an
exuberant state, so much so that within a year they parted company
and went separate ways. Ganguly, by this time married to a distant
relative oTr Rabindranath Tagore, returned to Hyderabad to head
a new venture of his own, taking several Calcutta fiim technicians
with him. The result was the Lotus Film Company, which began in
1922 under the benevolent eye of the Ni/am.

The company set up its own laboratory and within a short time
was also operating two Hyderabad cinemas. For the productions,
the Nizam gave permission to use palace backgrounds. 4 The com-

» Evidence , II, 640-41. 4 Ibid., II, G10.

25

pany got a rapid start and produced a number of films in quick
succession. Some, like England Returned, were comedies and had
English titles: The Lady Teacher and The Marriage Tonic . There
was also a mythological, Hara Gouri . Another film, The Step-
mother, was based on a Bengali play. Things were starting well for
the Lotus Film Company.

In 1924 it offered, at one of its Hyderabad theatres, a Bombay-
produced film called Razia Begum, based on historic events and
telling of a Muslim queen who fell in love with a Hindu subject.
The mid- 1920s were a time of rising Hindu-Muslim tension. The
makers of Razia Begum may have thought of their film as a con-
tribution to interfaith amity. It had run successfully in Bombay, but
immediately after its appearance in Hyderabad, a functionary of
the Nizam anived at the Lotus Film Company door. Ganguly and
associates were instructed to leave the Nizam's domain within
twenty-four hours. 5

That day two theatres were closed, equipment was packed, and
families and technicians departed. After stopping briefly in Bombay,
Ganguly made his way back to Calcutta. Shipwrecked for the mo-
ment, he began, after a time, to try to organize a new venture. We
shall leave him now but shall meet him again presently. He had al-
ready injected a new note of comedy into the Indian film, and
burned his fingers on histpry. He would not be the last.

A stall in a bazaar

Debaki Kumar Bose, son of an attorney, was born in Akalpoush,
in the Burdwan district of West Bengal— not far from Calcutta— in
1898. In 1920 he was busy with college studies and would soon take
the University of Calcutta examinations that would make him a
Bachelor of Arts. But 1920 was also the year that the Indian Na-
tional Congress met in special session in Calcutta.

The most important figure at the meeting was Gandhi. Already
a revered leader, he &as now emerging as a great unifying force in
the independence movement. Throughout the First World War he
had cooperated with the British and urged faith in British assur-
5 Interview, Ganguly.

26

tinue for decades, and which would bring into the Indian film a
special Indian note of dedication and fervor. Debaki Bose was a dev-
otee, a Vaishnavite, who could speak freely about the film medium
and what it could do in the cause of love, in a way that film makers
of other nations would not be likely to d.». Love, said Debaki Bose,
begets love. Only love, he said, can “bring about fruition in all hu-
man efforts, including the making of films.’' 7 The sound film, espe-
cially through its resources of music, was to give him the opportu-
nity to emerge as one of India’s most notable directors, although in
the end he despaired of the drift ol his industry.

We shall hear more of Debaki Bose.

A film fur Idd

Chandu 1 '*! T Shah was born in 1 81)8 in Jamnagar, near Bombay.
He studied at Suydenham College in Bombay and prepared for a ca-
reer in business. After graduation, while looking for a position, he
worked with a brother, D. J. Shah, who had written mythological
films for several rising Bombay pioducers

It was a time of tension and hunger but also of cntci prise. The
First World War had stimulated Indian business and industry. Be-
fore the war British policy had generally discouraged Indian indus-
trialization; the function of India, in the colonial pi »n, had been to
serve as a source of raw matciials and a maiket for B. : sh manufac-
tured goods. Although an Indian steel industry had been launched
in the prewar years by the Fata family . its existence was regarded as
precarious because of the possible hostility rf Sheffield interests. But
the First World War brought a change. The strain on British man-
ufacturing made it desperately important to Cheat Britain that In-
dian industrialization be speeded. An Indian Munitions Board was
set up in 1917 to make India, in large measure, “the arsenal for the
Allies in the Near East.” 8 India became an expanding source of
steel rails, clothing, boots, tents, jute goods. The Board furthered
expansion of wolfram mines, iron and siccl works, cotton and jute
mills. All this brought economic expansion to various areas, and

7 Bose, “Films Must Mirror Life," in Indian Talkie, I93I-S6, p. 43.

8 Wallbank, A Shot! History, p. 121.

29

especially to the huge port of Bombay. Along with the officially
sponsored growth there was other expansion. Wartime shortages
brought speculation and black market trading, and these too put
money into circulation in the big cities. All this had an impact on
the infant film field, as similar conditions in the Second World War
were to have years later, in even larger measure.

Funds came into film from a variety of sources. Hindustan Films,
as we have seen, was made possible by a textile manufacturer, along
with others. Jagadish, another new company of this period, was fi-
nanced by a cotton merchant. In Calcutta an Eastern Film Syndicate
was launched with the aid of a hair oil manufacturer. 0 In Bombay
similar investments were creating other companies. In the words of
one producer, the successes of Phalke “gave impetus to many capi-
talists in Bombay to rush to this industry.” 10 Among the Bombay
investors were the owners of theatres, who were by now competing
vigorously for new films, especially the better Indian films. This
trend is illustrated by the career of Chandulal J. Shah.

In d924 Shah got a job on the Bombay Stock Exchange and felt he
had settled down to a life of business. But the following year he
heard that the Imperial Theatre was desperate for a film to be
launched the week of Idd. For this Indian holiday, somewhat more
than a month away, the theatre wanted an Indian film and had so
far faijed to obtain one. Chandulal Shah, silently aided by the repu-
tation of his brother and his own vague association with several of
his brother’s mythological films, offered to have a film ready before
the deadline. The theatre agreed to advance Rs. 10,000, half the
usual budget for a 6,000-foot Bombay feature of the time. Within
a day or two photography was begun, with Shah directing. When
the theatre made enquiries two weeks later, he gave assurance that
the film would be ready for the holiday. It was now that the theatre
manager learned, to his horror, that Shah was not producing a
mythological but a story of modern background. “I need a myth-
ological!” he pleaded. “Something that will run at least a month!”
A modern Indian story, he was sure, could not last more than two
weeks. But it was too late to start over. Shah delivered the film be-

• Evidence , II, 691 . 10 Ibid., Ill, 678.

30

Secunderabad, Nagcrcoil. In listing vanished companies, the edi-
tor sometimes added cryptic explanations or comments. For Bom-
bay he listed Oriental Pictures Corporation (“Had a short life”).
Young India Film Company ("One picture and then died”), Jagad-
ish Films (“Defunct”), Excelsior Compary ("Shut down”), Surcsh
Film Company (“Liquidated’').

Jn Calcutta he listed the Indo-British Film Company (“Broke
up”), Taj Mahal Film Company (“Short-lived”), Photo-Play Syndi-
cate of India (“Flashed like a lightning and as quickly disappeared
after their first picture, Soul of a Slave ”), Eastern Film Syndicate
(“Low moral tone stood in the way of their second picture, Bi-
charark , released after cuts— collapsed”), British Dominion Films
(“Collapsed due to internal tumbles”), Hcera Film Company (“Not
now functioning”).

As to Madras, the list told of Nataraja Mudaliar (“Made a bold
stand about a year or so producing mythological films. . . . His pic-
tures were bad from all standpoints”), Star of the East Films
(“Wound up owing to lack of capital”), Guarantee Film Company
(“Guaranteed pictures no doubt but strange she did not guarantee
her life”), General Pictures Corporation Ltd. (“Liquidated”), As-
sociated Films Ltd. (“Failed for want of business-like instinct”). 13

Many of these enterprises had started with only the sketchiest
technical preparation. A few had started on the basis of correspond-
ence courses given by one or another “institute” ». the United
States. 14 Some started on the basis of one man’s travel md observa-
tion abroad. In 1921 one young Indian, in London, sought permis-
sion to watch ptoduction at one of the studios and had been asked
to pay a “premium” of £1,000, which he could not afford. lie went
to Germany and secured the same privilege for a more modest £15
per month. “The only training I got thcic was I saw how some of
the w r cll-known experts w>erc directing and how things were carried
out.” 15 One man had traveled to the United States in the hope of
making such observation but gained entry, after long effort, only by
becoming an extra. And on the basis oi mother man’s camera ex-
perience in the United States, a Bombay company was formed and

Who Is Who in Indian Filmland, pp. 4-11.

» Evidence, III, 327, 364. 15 Ibid., 1,181.

35

began production, “when unfortunately he died and the company
had to go into liquidation.’* 16

Nevertheless, enterprises were launched. It is not surprising that
various observers were saying, during the 1920s, that Indian films
were becoming worse, not better. It is also not surprising that by the
end of the 1920s, capital was becoming scarce.

Among exhibitors, too, there was mushroom growth and high
mortality. The number of theatres in India increased from about
150 in 1923 to about 205 in 1927. J7 This brought a sharply in-
creased demand for Indian films, but the supply of usable films
could not meet it. As for foreign films, an obstacle was Madan Thea-
tres Ltd. By 1927 its chain numbered 85 theatres— 65 owned and 20
supplied under contract. 18 Such a chain of theatres could and did
outbid all other exhibitors for the best foreign films. Exhibitors
were often faced with nightmare uncertainties about film supply,
and sometimes took foreign films they did not want.

This reminds us that the Indian films of the 1920s were only a
part, of what the Indian filmgoer was seeing. In the other part, the
foreign supply, an important change was taking place.

Empire

We have noted that when Phalke began his work, in the years before
the First World War, Indian cinemas were showing an international
assortment of films. This was true also of theatres in Great Britain,
the United States, and other countries. In 1910 the features released
in Great Britain included 36 from Fiance, 28 from the United States,
17 from Italy, 15 from Great Britain, 4 from Denmark, Germany,
and elsewhere. 1 The films shipped to India before the war, and
during its first year or so, reflected this pattern. Then the change
came.

10 Ibid., I, 13.

17 Report of the Indian Cinematograph Committee , p. 179.

18 Evidence, II, 828. These figures include Madan theatres in Burma and Ceylon.

1 Low, History of the British Film , 1906-19H, p. 54.

36

The outbreak of war in 1914 almost stopped film production in
France and Italy, handcuffed English production with scarcities and
restrictions, and isolated the German studios. But audiences every-
where remained ravenous lor films, which were suddenly regarded
as necessary for morale. American produce *\s, now establishing them-
selves in Hollywood, were ready to fill the need. A fantastic Ameri-
can expansion began, which soon made Charlie Chaplin, Mary
Pickford, and other emerging stars household deities throughout
the world, created fortunes, and set the stage lor further expansion
after the war. By the time the treaty of Versailles was signed Holly-
wood was the world film capital. 'French warfare was over. But the
international film struggles were only beginning.

For the other film-producing nations, the problem was not only
one of physical recovery. During the war the United States had set
the pattern of film distribution. As early as 1915, Great Britain had
portents of what this might mean. T he I'ssanay company, control-
ling the most-wanted ol all films, those of Charlie Chaplin, began
to reejuite British exhibitors to take the whole Essanay output along
with Chaplin. British producers round British theatres booked far
ahead by this “block booking” and increasingly unable— or unwill-
ing— to absorb the slim output ol the British studios. A plan to re-
quire theatres to show a minimum quota ol British films was first
proposed in 1917 but failed oi adoption. By the errd ol the^war, m
1918, the British film industry "found inc America stranglehold
too strong to break.”- By 1925 it was estimated that 95 percent of
British screen time was occupied by .American films.' 1 In France, a
similar situation prevailed.

If British, French, and other producers were finding it difficult to
regain a toehold on their home grounds, they now found their for-
mer United States niaikets even more impenetrable, tieie vast con-
solidations were takin° place. In some cases theatre chains, such as
Loew’s, were put chasing studios in order to he certain of a steady
flow of films. In other cases producers, like Paramount aunched
theatre-buying and theatre-building pi grams in order to have a
secure home market. Paramount, starting such a program in 1919,

8 Ralcon et al., Twenty Yeats of Hritish Film, |> 13.

3 Low, History of the lintish Film , 19 14-19 IH. }>p 05-06.

37

had 300 theatres by 1921 and almost a thousand a decade later. 4 Fox
and Warner Brothers also bought American theatres by the hun-
dreds; Universal followed the example on a more modest scale.
Many theatres not purchased came under the control of the pro-
ducers via block-booking contracts. Opportunities for foreign films
became severely restricted. But the large American producers were
now secure in their home base, and amply supported by it. Foreign
markets came to represent pure profit.

In India this meant that American films could always be offered
at lower prices than most other films, including Indian films. An
Indian film usually had to recoup Rs. 20,000 in its home market.
The importer of an American film could usually purchase Indian
distribution rights for a fraction of this. In 1927 an importer of some
Columbia Pictures productions paid as little as Rs. 2,000 per fea-
ture for rights in India, Burma, and Ceylon, 5 although most prices
were higher.

In 1916 Universal became the first of the American producing-
distributing companies to establish an agency in India. By the mid-
1920s it was offering Indian theatres 52 features, 52 comedies, 52
newsreels per year. Block booking seems to have been involved in
some cases but not in others. Universal appears to have felt that the
Indian market was worth nursing patiently, and it won among some
exhibitprs a reputation lor humanity. One exhibitor, irate at the de-
mands of film distributors, declared: “The noblest exception to this
statement is the Universal Pictures Corporation, whose agent in
Bombay and the several local managers arc very considerate to the
theatre owners.” 6

Pathe-India had been established in Bombay as early as 1907 as
the concessionaire for the films of Pathtf Freres. 7 Alex Hague, for
over two decades manager and sole proprietor of Path^-India,
could also handle other products and became the Indian distributor
of First National Pictures— later absorbed by Warner Brothers.
Path£-India became an importer of American more than of Euro-
pean features. 4

During the 1920s the products of some of the other American

‘Conant, Antitrust in the Motion Picture Industry, pp. 25-26.

' Evidence, III, 435. • Ibid., Ill, 384. 7 Ibid., I, 503.

38

companies were imported by Madan Theatres Ltd. It appears to
have purchased American films in wholesale lots to secure the out-
standing big-name attractions. American films formed the staple of
most Madan theatres. In 1923, on the death of J. F. Madan, control
of Madan Theatres Ltd. passed to his ft-? sons-B. J., F. J., J. J.,
P. J., and R. J. Madan. At that time 90 percent of Madan imports
came from the United States, the remaining 10 percent from Great
Britain, France, and Germany. 8

In 1926-27 15 percent of the features released in India were In-
dian, 85 percent were foreign. Most of these were American.® The
position ol the foreign film in India was of course irksome to Indian
producers, lire dominance of American films among these imports
was especially nettling to British producers.

In the postwar years Germany was the first country to strengthen
the international position of its film industry through government
action. Partly a continuation of its wartime mobilization of film,
this action involved lavish government investments in studios and
equipment, as well as production subsidies. 10 In the 1920s the Ger-
man film underwent a dramatic rebirth, which had its impart in In
dia in several German-Indian co-productions, starting in 1925 with
The Tight of Asia, which wc shall discuss later.

In 1927 Great Britain at last moved to bolster its film industry. Its
Cinematograph Films Act of 1927 wa* described as “an act to re-
strict blind booking and advance book>g of cinema graph films,
and to secure the renting and exhibition of a certain pioportion of
British films, and for purposes connected therewith." For British
theatres the quota was to start at 5 percent and in a few years rise
to 20 percent, its purpose was achieved with remarkable speed. In
1926 Great Britain had produced only 26 feature films. Production
rose to 128 in 1929, and to 153 in 1932. 11

While making sure of a share of its home market, Great Britain
was also thinking about its place in the film market of British India.
On October 6, 1927, the Government of India announced the ap-

8 Ibid., II, 863.

9 Report of the Indian Cinematograph Committee, p. 188.

10 Kracaiici, From CaHgari to Hitler , pp. 35-IV.'

11 Balcon et at., Twenty Years of British Films , pp 14-15.

39

pointment of a committee of enquiry, the Indian Cinematograph
Committee.

“Much harm was being done”

The background of this action was summarized by the committee
in these words:

Letters and articles have appeared from time to time in the British Press
asseverating that much harm was being done in India by the widespread
exhibition of Western films. We have seen several of these Press comments
from 1 923 onwards. The general trend of them is that, owing to difference
of customs and outlook. Western films are misunderstood and tend to dis-
credit Western civilization in the eyes of the masses in India. Such criticism
was chiefly directed against “cheap American films.” To give an example of
this sort of criticism, a well-known Bishop intimately acquainted with India
stated (as reported in the Press) in a speech at a conference in England
in 1925: “The majority of the films, which are chiefly from America, are of
sensational and daring murders, climes, and divorces, and, on the wdiole,
degrade the white women in the eyes of the Indians.” 12

In view of all this, the Indian Cinematograph Committee was in-
structed to study the adequacy of censorship as practiced in India
and the need for stricter measures. And the committee had a further
task:

r

At the same time the question has been raised by a resolution of the Im-
perial Conference of 1926 whether the various parts of the Empire could
take any steps to encourage the exhibition of Empire films. As all Govern-
ments of the Empire have been invited to consider this question, it ap-
peared to the Government of India that it would be appropriate that it
should be examined by the proposed Committee. This extension of the
scope of the Committee’s enquiry would also enable it to address itself to a
question which may have a far-reaching influence on the development of
the cinematograph in India, namely, the possibility of encouraging the
production and exhibition of Indian films. 13

Great Britain’s careful approach to this problem, and the delicate
wording of the resolution, reflected the nature of the relationship
that existed in 1927 between Great Britain and British India.

18 Report of the Indian Cinematograph Committee , p. 3. 18 Ibid., p. xii.

40

Dyarchy in action

The reforms of 1921 had been put into effect in India despite the
boycott of the Indian National Congress, and a certain amount of
democratic machinery was now operating. In the provinces some
departments had been “transferred” to Indian authority, and in
various provinces British officials were working under Indian min-
isters. Meanwhile the franchise had been extended, and in one of
the branches of the central legislature the majority of members
were now chosen by the broadened electorate.

However, these democratic: mechanisms were combined with
others that left ultimate authority firmly in British hands. While
some provincial departments had been “transferred,” more crucial
matters such as justice, police, and prisons were still “reserved.” And
both in the provinces and in the central government, the executive
had not only absolute veto power over legislation but also inde-
pendent legislative po.ver. If the lcgislatuic failed to enact a law he
considered necessary, the Governor-General— or, in the provinces,
the British-appointed governor— could “certify” it as essential and
so make it law These devices were the crux of Indian opposition
to the reform ^lan. In the view of many Indian leaders this system
of “dyarchy,” as it was called, invited Indians to share responsibility
without authority. Yet the machinery had been launched, and the
British were at pains to emphasi/e its democratic aspects. •

The Indian Cinematograph Committee was ent’’. in the spirit
of the times. It consisted of three British and three In .an members.
One of the Indians, Diwan Bahadur T. Rangachariar, a prominent
Madras lawyer, was the committee chairman. 1 he arrangement
gave Indian members a preponderant dignity without a majority.
The committee would, of course, make no ultimate decisions; it
would study and report. Through its enquiry, it was asked to lay
the foundation for protection of “Empire films.”

For British purposes the resolution was w r ell worded. The phrase
“Empire films” was elusive, but the committee was urged to con-
sider it as including Indian ns w'ell a British films. There was a
spirit of partnership about this.

14 Wallbank, A Short History, pp. 148-52.

41

In stating the problem in terms of a Western threat to Indian
ways, the resolution was of course echoing a favorite theme of the
Congress, and especially of Gandhi himself. In a characteristic ut-
terance Gandhi had declared: “India’s salvation consists in unlearn-
ing what she has learned during the last fifty years. The railways,
telegraphs, hospitals, lawyers, doctors and such-like have all to
go." 13 The committee was now asked to consider whether “such-
like” did not include “Western films . . . chiefly from America.”

To arrive at its decision the committee set out to study all aspects
of film production, distribution, and exhibition in India, public re-
action to them, and the operation of governmental supervision. It
thus launched a major investigation, in the course of which it held
hearings in a do/en cities, traveled 9,400 miles, visited production
companies and theatres, questioned 353 witnesses, studied 320 re-
plies to the 4,325 questionnaires it had issued, and spent Rs.
193,900.

The committee thought it worth recording that its witnesses had
included 111 Europeans, Anglo-Indians, and Americans, and 239
Indians. Of the Indians, 157 were Hindus and 82 non-Hindus; the
latter included 38 Muslims, 25 Parsis, 10 Burmese, 2 Sikhs, and 1
Christian. The committee also noted that it had examined 35 ladies,
of whom 16 were Europeans and 19 Indians. The witnesses in-
cluded.members of the film industry and nonindustry people. 10

In May, 1928, the committee completed its repoit, which was fol-
lowed by a Minute of Dissent by its three British members, and the
chairman’s reply to the dissent. The report was printed, as was a
transcript of all open hearings. The resulting material— the one-vol-
ume Report of the Indian Cinematograph Committee and four vol-
umes of Evidence — forms a rich storehouse of information on the
early Indian film.

Among the film-industry witnesses were Dadasaheb Phalke, Dhi-
ren Ganguly, J. J. Madan, Alex Hague, Sulochana or Ruby Meyers,
and other early film leaders not yet mentioned such as Himansu
Rai, producer of The Light of Asia. Other witnesses included repre-
sentatives of American companies, censorship officials, and Indian

18 Quoted in Nehru, Toward Freedom, p. 314.

10 Report of the Indian Cinematograph Committee, pp. 13-14.

42

exhibitors, including traveling exhibitors. The transcript provides
many vivid word pictures ol the Indian film world in action in its
second decade.

In cities and mofussil

The theatres, as mirrored in the testimony, ranged from those of
the Madan chain, one of which was about to install a Wurlit/er
pipe organ at a cost of Rs. (>5,000, to primitive cinemas in mofussil
—the rural areas. Most theatres apparently had two or more show-
ings a day; one theatre gave twelve a day during melas. 17 We learn
that prices were usually in three or more classes, often from 2 or 3
annas to 2 rupees. In cities the top price might be 3 rupees, for
“box” or “sofa” seats. In the lesser cinemas the lowest price might
be 1 anna, foi “giound” seats. In an Assam theatre the 393 tickets
sold fo: ;,Uk • *< »hmnai .e were for 350 ground scats, 40 bench seats,
3 chair seats; this was a normal distribution.

The films often had subtitles in three or four languages. A print
made for cimila'.ion in the north might have each subtitle in Hindi,
Gujarati, and Welti; in the south a print might have subtitles in
Tamil, Telugu, and Knglish. Witnesses tell us that at each subtitle a
rumble swept over the theatre, as people who could read pro-
claimed the words for those who could not. A few theatres hpd offi-
cial readers.

A. We have translators rum.

Q. Have you? On the cinema?

A. Oh yes. There is a man always standing there and explaining the
film. He is a very clever fellow. lie knows all abc at the story. Then as soon
as one scene is on, he explains the whole thing in Telugu because everybody
can’t read what is on the film. He stands there throughout; he is a lecturer.

Q. We were told that such a man is a nuisance.

A. Not at all. He is paid 50 rupees. 18

In a Northwest Frontier Province theatre this person was called a
“demonstrator.” 19

17 Evidence , I, 1 10. JH Ibid., Ill, 251.

10 Ibid., IV, 102 Never idolized like the Japanese bvmhi described in Anderson
and Ricliic. The Japanese Film, pp. 22-3-1 die Indian narrators largely disap-
peared with the coming of sound.

43

Some of the mofussil theatres were described by witnesses as be-
ing in a sorry state:

The lowest class of spectator has to squat on the ground and the benches
and chairs in the other classes are in wretched co dir on and infested by
bugs. There is no proper ventilation and iuum ' f ti heatres are merely
corrugated tin sheds. There is very little open space sui rounding the thea-
tre and no garden to please the eye and to attract the public. 20

An exhibitor in Nagpur said his theatre had cost him Rs. 24,000.
“The tin shed alone cost us 14,000 rupees. It is the biggest cinema
in Nagpur/' 21

The city of Bombay had 20 cinemas, Calcutta 13, Madras 9, Delhi
6, Poona 6. A number of other cities had three or four. 22 Exhibi-
tors testified to many problems with local authority: “The police,
the custom, the postal, telegraph, municipal and a host of other
people have to be admitted free to avoid trouble/’ 23

Women filmgoers were scarce in the south and in mainly Muslim
areas of the north but were increasingly evident in most cities. In
Hindu areas mythological brought them out in numbers. During
Western films, “when a kissing scene is shown the ladies turn their
heads away." 24

American films usually appeared in India eighteen months after
release, although some came much sooner. The most popular film
of the (decade appears to have been The Thief of Bagdad, starring
Douglas Fairbanks. Exhibitors almost never saw films before book-
ing them. Distributors said this was not “blind booking" because the
exhibitor was told the titles, and could get information from trade
papers. Outright purchase of prints— pirated, in some cases— per-
sisted among some traveling cinemas, but others were renting films
at Rs. 50 per night. 25 A city theatre would pay a much larger “fixed
hire" or there might be a percentage arrangement, if the exhibitor
was trusted.

Many Indian producers made only three prints of a feature film,
for distribution throughout India. Ten prints appeared to be the
maximum. The import duty on raw film was a restraining factor.

Shortcomings of Indian films were often mentioned. But what

80 Evidence , I, 564. 81 Ibid., III. 856. 82 Ibid., IV, 351-65.

88 Ibid., IV, 90. « Ibid., I, 572. 28 Ibid., I, 579.

44

emerged most unmistakably was the growing preference for Indian
films in spite of these shortcomings. Even witnesses who did not
share the preference conceded that this was cl' arly the trend.

Q. You mean that ordinary people— we won’t c" 11 them illiterate, but not
belonging to the middle class— you mean to say they do not go to these
theatres where foreign films arc shown? Is that what you mean by your
answer?

A. Yes, they do not go. . . . Formerly they used to go and see fighting or
any exciting films, or comic films.

Q. Now that the Indian films arc produced, you think the attendance at
foreign films of a social nature is hilling?

A. Yes 20

(dearly the American serials of the early 1920s had made way, in
many theatres, for Indian films. Some exhibitors wanted Indian
films but could not get them or aflord them.

Q. You fi MrI it difficult to get Indian films?

A. Yes, the rates arc exorbitant.

Q. Have you ever taken Western films?

A. Yes, they are cheaper than Indian films, but they do not attract die
same audience as in the case of Indian films.

Q. But you find it difficult to get Indian films.

A. There is a lot of competition.-’"

In 1918, in Bombay, only one theatre hail specialized in Indian
films. By 1927 more than half of the twenty theatres showed Indian
films at least part ol the lime. Inhibitors catering e-; ' • ially to a Eu-
ropean and Westernized clientele— there were nine uch theatres
in Bombay— generally felt it essential to stick to Western films.
One such exhibitor had shifted lor only one week to a Phalkc film:

The type of people who like Indian pictures, their way of living is quite
different and generally they aie people who chew betel leaves . . . let me
give you an example 4 . I did show an Indian picture at my Western theatre,
Lanka Dalian, and I made 18,000 rupees in one week. But it ruined my
theatre altogether.

Q. You mean you had to disinfect the cinema?

A. 1 had to disinfect the hall and at the same time I had to n nvince my
audience I had disinlected it. . . . Fill that t: 4 i went on losing moneys

20 /bid., 1,21.

27 Ibid., Ill, 318.

*>lbid., 1,364.

45

The problems of Indian film producers were luminated by many
witnesses. Several film makers were prodm mg, trying to produce,
a schedule of a dozen productions a yea/ A c-week production
schedule was considered normal for a featuie. :>mbay considered
Rs. 20,000 a proper feature budget, although a tew films had cost
much more. Some Calcutta and Madras producers felt that Rs.
10,000, or at most Rs. 15,000, was the practical limit. A Bombay
company was paying actors from Rs. 30 to Rs. 1,000 per month. The
30-rupee salary was for “a coolie, a super, an extra"; average actors
got Rs. 200-250 per month. A normal star salary was Rs. 600-800 but
a few received more. 29 In Bombay producers were already begin-
ning to consider Punjabis the most suitable physical specimens for
film acting. 30 Stars were rapidly becoming idols. One woman star.
Sultana, received baskets of fruit from distant admirers. In Cal-
cutta a few ladies "of the better classes" had taken part in films—
we shall meet some of them later— but some producers drew on
women from the "prostitute and dancing-girl class," who had appar-
ently lost their early reluctance toward the cinematograph. The
committee, concerned about the well-being of the industry, pursued
this matter at every stop:

Chairman. Do you think that the present conditions in your studio are
satisfactory, sufficient to attract respectable actors and actresses?

A. Oh yes, wc are catering for respectable ac tors and actresses.

Q. I mean what arrangements are made for housing them?

A. We keep the respectable characters in separate rooms and they are
quite aloof from the others . 31

Most production was being done by closely knit companies. Each
had its own laboratory. Almost all shooting was done outdoors,
but a few producers were building, or planning to build, glass-
roofed studios. Indian production of topicals was declining, but
Pathe Gazette and International Newsreel w^ere shown in a number
of theatres. The Madan organization was an occasional producer of
topicals, as well as related items: "Wc have always got a set of cam-
eramen and if we get any orders from Rajahs or Maharajahs to film
any function, we can undertake that kind of work too." 32 An un-

”Ibid., I, 182-83. 80 Ibid., II, 13.

“ Ibid., I, 165. 82 Ibid., II, 851.

46

usual, self-taught cameraman in Madras sent reels of film to Fox
and International Newsreel in New York City and was paid $2 per
foot, undeveloped, for whatever was accepted, tie told the commit-
tee he had sold 3,000 feet in a four-year period— mainly of festivals
and parades. 33 But in general, activity of this sort was sporadic, and
what there was of it was beginning to be watched with nervousness
by the censors. A newsreel item showing a Sikh procession was
banned by the Calcutta Commissioner of Police for fear it would
offend Muslims. 34

In the primitive laboratories maintained by various producers,
conditions were often “appalling." Heat was the great enemy of
technical standards. A laboratory man explained: “You have got to
try and harden your film and it gets nothing but a mass of jelly on
the celluloid and the least touch will scratch it. I have had the ex-
perience of it washing right oil the celluloid.” 3 * 1

The » 4 : m between film industry and press received attention
and produced interesting revelations. The committee noted that
newspapers included “critiques" of foreign films more often than of
Indian films. Wouldn't searching criticism help to raise the stand-
ards of Indian films? Answering this qaeslion, a Bombay editor
explained:

If I may frankly confess to you, all newspapers get critique paragraphs
typewritten Irom the exhibitors themselves. 1 hat is my (rank confession.

Q. In the case of foreign films they geL it from the fo eign producer.^
ready made?

A. Ready made, cut and dry, only to he sent down to the p. niter.

Later he was asked:

Q. Supposing you criticise a picture honestly?

A. Our trade is so closely interwoven with the interests of the pro-
ducers and exhibitors that we cannot possibly think of doing so.'™

A Calcutta journalist told a similar story, while at the same time
paying tribute to the Statesman lor a degree of independence that
was apparently remarkable:

What takes place usually is that for ordin. .y films the press do not even

« Ibid., II, 728. 84 Ibid., II. 1070-71.

35 Ibid., II, 728. 33 Ibid., I, 495-97 .

47

care to send down a representative. Indeed the reviews which appear some-
times are sent in by the exhibitor. The Statesman is about the only paper
that cuts it down. The other papers having more space, sometimes it ap-
pears as it is sent in.

Q. The advertising revenue does not tie their hands?

A. It does in a way for small papers. But the Statesman does not care a
jot. Sometimes when Madans have taken a full page they have only re-
ceived three lines. They have kicked up a row . 37

Kissing, communalism, motor car dacoity

At each stop in the committee's travels, the workings of censor-
ship received major attention. Under legislation of 1918— the In-
dian Cinematograph Act— and amendments of 1919 and 1920 the
control of cinemas and the censorship of films had been made pro-
vincial “reserved" subjects, and placed under police jurisdiction*. In
Bombay, Calcutta, and Madras, boards of censors had been set up in
1920 to assist the Commissioner of Police in this censorship. A Pun-
jab board had been organized in 1927. Each of these boards could
license a film for showing throughout India and also, at any time,
“uncertify” it. A film could also be uncertified at any time for any
city by its Police Commissioner or for any province by provincial
authority. 38 Thus Orphans of the Storm, with the Gish sisters, was
uncertified in various areas when police found Indian audiences too
responsive to the revolutionary scenes; Razia Begum, the Indian film
about a Hindu-Muslim palace romance— which had angered the
Nizam of Hyderabad— was uncertified in various areas after Muslim
protests. 30

The make-up of the boards, and their procedure, reflected pre-
vailing tensions and ways of coping with them. The Calcutta board,
for example, had a Hindu member, a Muslim member, a British
military member, a British woman member, and others— each repre-
senting, in effect, a constituency. British members had a majority.
The president, as in the case of each of these boards, was the Com-
missioner of Police, who was British. In practice, the work of the

”Ibid., II, 1080-81.

“ Report of the Indian Cinematograph Committee, pp. 105-9.

■ Evidence, IV, 368-98.

48

board was largely done by two paid inspectors, one British and one
Indian. Every film was seen by an inspector. The board generally
certified a film on the basis of his recommendation. If he foresaw
possible difficulties, the secretary of the board asked one or two of
its members to have a look at the film. This was not done in rota-
tion.

For instance, if the film is such as is likely to he objected to as being offen-
sive to Mohammedans he would naturally put the Mohammedan member
to report on it. If it is a film which is likely to be objected to from the point
of view of the military, he would put the military representative on it.
In the case of a film which is likely to affect women or children the lady
representative would be on it.* 10

All this was in accord with accepted practice. It seemed, no doubt,
an essential procedure for avoiding trouble on tense issues. At the
same time, it had the effect of giving the issues a built-in status.
Each board member acquired authority only from the specialized
sensitivities he was expected to have. He tended to become a pris-
oner of his constituency. A group looked to its representative on the
board to veto the objectionable. The Muslim board member was
thus constantly faced with the choice of e ther approving a film or
defending it thenceforth against the objections of Lhe most sensitive
Muslims. The military member, the woman member, the Hindu
member— each was placed in a similar position . 41

The witnesses who appeared before the Indian Cinematograph
Committee, and who represented various fields of i. ?rest, over-
whelmingly favored strong censorship for India. Even people who
said they generally disapproved of censorship maintained that it was
essential for India. The feeling that India represented a special
problem in this respect was, however, explained on widely varying
grounds. Some said it was essential because of Hindu-Muslim fric-
tion. A member of the Punjab board was asked:

Q. Of course in this province history requires very careful handling?

A. Oh yes.

40 Ibid.. II. 1045.

41 A college professor on the Calcutta board, not leprcscnting an especially touchy
constituency, said: "My services were requisitioned not more than half a dozen
times in two years." Ibid.

49

Q. Modern history will perhaps have to be avoided?

A. It will have to be for the present.

Q. With the present communal tension?

A. If you want Indian history more modern than 1,000 a.d., it would be

difficult to handle the subject. 42

Others considered censorship essential because, they said, foreign
films were encouraging crime in India. A recent rise in robberies
involving cars— “motor car dacoity”— was mentioned by several wit-
nesses. All considered these robberies to be due to the cinemato-
graph, although the chairman of the committee at one point sug-
gested that they might also be due “to the advent of the motor
car .“ 43

Still other people considered censorship essential in India be-
cause the hugging and kissing in foreign films were “demoralizing 0
Indian youth and threatening Indian custom and tradition. Many
witnesses favored the strictest censorship of love scenes. Complete
elimination of all kissing sequences was recommended by some. One
witness felt it would be enough to eliminate close-ups. “Avoid close-
ups $s much as possible. That is the main thing .” 44

Finally there was the view, held by European witnesses especially,
that films were bringing Western society into contempt and under-
mining Indian respect for Western women.

While the need tor censorship was thus asserted on various
grounds, political necessity was almost never mentioned among
them. Yet when instances of censorship were examined, political rea-
sons loomed large. While the other arguments for censorship were
advanced earnestly and with evident sincerity, it is notable that all
these arguments, coming from Indians and non-Indians alike, laid
the basis for a strict political censorship.

The paid inspectors, before recommending a license, often re-
quired the producer or distributor to make specific cuts or
changes. The cuts often had to do with subtitles. The committee
was curious about a number of these cuts, which represented a va-
riety of problems. Calcutta’s British inspector, who considered Ka-
lidasa a writer of books rather than of plays, was asked to explain a
cut in an imported film:

42 Ibid., II, 2. 42 Ibid., I, 80. 1 Ibid., II, 925.

50

Q. Again look at No. 8070, The Impossible Mrs . Bellew. In your re-
marks you say. Omit the subtitle, ‘Madame, you are magnificent, your
figure is fair as your face is beautiful.* ’* What is wrong with it?

A. It was a direct reference to some essential features of the lady.

Q. Don’t you pay compliments to a lady?

A. I think it was somewhat an oflensive remark to make.

Q. Sometimes they are flattered too. For instance, our Kalidasa has put
in some such words to Dushyanta in addressing Shakuntala?

A. But I would not draw an exac't parallel between a book and a pic-
ture on the screen. You would agree that a picture shown on the screen
is much more striking and will appeal to a much wider audience than it
can possibly do in the case ol a book.' 1 *

The committee pried into a number of subtitle cuts made in
Bombay and Calcutta, both in Indian and in foreign films. Many
cuts involved political reasons. The extent and nature of them
seemed to surprise some committee members.

Q. Then n ,r ain in Reel VIII the words “in freedom” have been cut from
the title. “My sons! Die in freedom rather than living in Shiva ji's serv-
ice.” Why was it done?

Secretary of the Board: It was thought to ha\c some political significance
in it.

Q. Was it done b> the Board or by the Inspector?

A. It was done by the Inspector with the concurrence of the producer. 40

Q. Then again take 7040, page 33. Bright Shawl, where you say . . .
“Omit the subtitle, ‘And my poor brother’s only sin was to love his native
land.’ ” What is wrong with it?

A. It is impossible, I think, to judge these tilings apart ir i the context
simply from the brief notes put down here. 47

Q. You say further, “Omit the subtitle, To us of Royalty can anything
be sweeter than the smell of a dead traitor?’ ’* What is wrong with it?

A. T hat is a matter of opinion; we would not like to have it applied
to our own Royal Family. 18

Q. You say, “Omit the title, 'I have revised the civil list— increasing all
our salaries by one-third, etc.’ ” I don’t see anything wrong in it. Docs this
indicate the nervousness • *f people who benefited under the Lee conces-
sions?

A. I don’t see how you could draw any conclusions from th' .c brief
notes. 40

48 Ibid., II, 556.

40 Ibid., I, 101. 47 Ibid., 11, 573.

48 Ibid., II, 555. 40 Ibid., IT, 573.

51

Additional cuts and revisions that interested the committee:

Fortune's Mask. . . . Omit in Part I . . . “He is getting popular— have him
investigated.” 50

Title . . . “Dreamed of a day when the government would be a government
of the people, by the people, for the people” . . . ordered to be substituted
by, “Dreamed of a day when peace and contentment would prevail in the
land.” 51

For the subtitle, “We will hold a mass meeting in the square and force the
President to declare peace or war,” substitute, “We will hold a mass meet-
ing in the square.” 5 ”

For the subtitle, “But that is murder, they are our own people,” substitute,
“Must I obey your orders, sir?” 55

Some committee members wondered about the effect of such in-
terference on the producer and on the development of the motion
picture. A producer was questioned about this:

Q. You are asked to omit, “Oh God, I have always been a man of peace.
But the ways of peace seem to have gone wrong. Please guide me.” . . . Do
you think an English director or an American director would stand any
such treatment?

A. Well, I think he would resent it. 54

But most producers said little by way of protest. In fact, seldom
during the weeks of hearings did any witness oppose censorship on
principle. The record does contain one spirited statement of this
sort, by A. Venkalarama Iyer, B.A., B.L., of Madurai:

a

I think every member of this committee believes in the freedom of speech
and freedom of opinion. I believe that all must have read John Milton’s
Aereopagitica. I believe also that British citizenship is a thing founded
upon liberty. I think that classical works arc characteristically great be-
cause there is freedom of expression and boldness of conception. Fetters,
even though they are made of gold, are still fetters. Censorship is cold, crit-
ical, routinelike, tyrannous, and inspires fear in the budding genius to ex-
press himself. The business of the censor is more to prohibit rather than
appreciate a work of art. The very name savours of a sickening restric-
tion, and it is the hand of death if it touches a work of art. 55

But opposite views were urged with equal vigor:

Unduly interfere with the artistic and inspirational development? This is
bosh! There is neither art nor inspiration in such pictures. They arc gross
and vulgar. 56

60 Ibid., II, 1059. “ Ibid., II, 933. M Ibid., II, 1060.

■ Ibid. * Ibid., I, 191. M Ibid., IV, 244. “ Ibid., I, 385.

52

A 50 percent majority

In May of 1928 the committee submitted its report. As instructed,
it made recommendations on (I) the adequacy of censorship and
(2) imperial preference. On the matter of censorship it took a calm
tone, expressing the opinion that Indian ' outh was not being de-
moralized and that many of the alarms about the impact of film in
India were exaggerated. It emphasized that many of the expres-
sions of alarm had originated outside the country, and suggested
that they had come to a large extent from people motivated by their
own special interests, and perhaps not fully in touch with the facts.

As to the adequacy of censorship, the committee expressed itself
as satisfied. It gave cautious support to the view that “too much
tenderness is bestowed on communal, racial, political and even
colour considerations,” and suggested that “overmuch tenderness
to frivolous objections is more likely to encourage dissension.” How-
ever, it i«A.ogm/cd that the vast majority ol witnesses . . . consider
that censorship is certainly necessary in India,” and it expressed its
concurrence with this view. It suggested that a central board of
censors could help to develop some uniformity in the standards of
censorship, while still leaving a good deal of authority in local
hands.

On the matter of “Empire films” the committee was forthright.

If too much exhibition of American films in the country is ° danger \o the
national interest, too much exhibition of oil..*. Western fill is as much a
danger. . . . The British social drama is as much an enigma i . the average
Indian audience as the American. In fact very lew Indians can distinguish
American manners and customs horn British manners and customs; very
few Indians can distinguish an American, Genran. or Frenchman from
an Englishman or Scotchman. If the cinema there lore has any influence on
the habits, lives and outlook of the people all Western films are likely to
have more or less the same kind of cflecl upon the people of 'his country / 11

With these words the Indian Cinematograph Committee thrust
aside the idea of imperial prclerencc.

But it went further. It said the important thing was tc ■ nature
the Indian film. For this purpose it urgeu various measures, includ-
ing a cinema department under the Indian Ministry of Commerce

67 Report of the Indian Cinematoguiph Commit it e, pp. 99-100

to look after the interests of the film industry, a government film li-
brary to utilize the educational value of film, a governmental film
finance fund to aid producers with loans, and a government plan to
encourage the building of cinemas.

The committee went still further, and recommended the aboli-
tion of all import duty tm raw film. “That the raw material of an in-
dustry should be free of duty is almost axiomatic ." 58

The report included still another proposal, although it was at
this point that the British members parted company with the Indian
members and issued their Minute of Dissent. The additional pro-
posal was a modified quote ilan requiring Indian theatres, with
some exceptions, to show a minimum proportion of Indian films.
“That the best theatres in her own country should not be open to
her own productions is a reproach which must be removed.” 50

While this proposal clearly echoed the spirit of the British quota
plan of 1927, the British members now dissented. Their Minute of
Dissent pointed out that, strictly speaking, the committee was evenly
divided, 3-3, on this matter, and that even though the other group
included the committee chairman, its proposal could not properly
be called a majority recommendation, nor properly included in the
report. It also frowned, to some extent, on the proposed financial
support to Indian producers.

But all this hardly mattered, for the Government of India com-
pletefy ignored the recommendations of the Indian Cinematograph
Committee. Not one of them was enacted into law. This was perhaps
not surprising, since the committee had rejected the very premises
on which its existence had been based. However, some of its ideas
would be revived in a later day, by a Film Enquiry Committee of
independent India.

As to residual effects of the Indian Cinematograph Committee, a
few may be suggested. Although the committee had expressed warn-
ings about censorship, it had on the whole confirmed, and left un-
disturbed, a strict censorship system. Rigorous film censorship thus
continued to be an Indian habit, a habit that would not readily be
put aside by a government of independent India.

Now that imperial preference had been rejected for the world of
M Ibid., p. 75. "Ibid.

54

film, it was also clear that the dominance of American films among
film imports would persist. The story of film in India would con-
tinue to be, for many years, a story of American and Indian films.
And since an Indian quota and government assistance were likewise
dead issues, the Indian film would have to make its way against its
formidable rival without quota or subsidy.

The failure of the Government of India to respond to the recom-
mendations of the Indian Cinematograph Committee may have had
another reason besides that we have mentioned. The committee
had been appointed on October 6, 1927. That was also the day on
which The Jazz Singer, the world’s first talking feature, had its pre-
miere in New York City, lis reception signaled the end of an era.

Thus the film world which the committee studied so assiduously
was already marked for sweeping changes. By the time the commit-
tee recommendations were written, detailed reports on The Jazz
Singer a'.^ ^ Impact o American audiences were appearing in In-
dian papers. Throughout 1928 the film trade press informed Indian
producers of Hollywood’s hectic scramble toward the new era. In
1929 The Melodv of Love, a Universal Pictures production, became
the first sound feature to be shown in India. Indian producers
read, saw, heard— and knew that it was all inevitable. To many, it
must have seemed like a pronouncement of doom.

Discord, of Tongues

The market of the Indian producer, up to this hou*, had been an
area inhabited by several hundred million people. Burma and Cey-
lon were being administered as part of India and within this area
no barriers— political, economic, or linguistic— had barred the way
to Indian films. Occasional successes had gone to Malaya, East Af-
rica, South Africa. But now a film would apparently need a lan-
guage.

In Bombay, which was leading in production volume, meant
this: Located in the Marathi-speaking area of the country, its pro-
ducers would naturally make films in that language. If so, they
would at the start of the 1980s have a potential market of 21 million

55

people, almost all in the region surrounding Bombay and including
Poona, Kolhapur, and other cities. 1 But the films would be incom-
prehensible in the rest of India, in Burma, and in Ceylon.

In Calcutta, which stood second in production, it meant this: Sit-
uated in Bengal, its producers would naturally make films in the
Bengali language, which would give them a market area inhabited
by some 53 million, largely in the northeastern portion of India. 2
Again, the films would be incomprehensible in most other parts of
India, in Burma, and in Ceylon.

In Madras, which had made a hesitant start in film production,
it meant this: Situated in the Tamil-speaking area of the country,
its producers would logically make fdms in that language, which
would give them a potential market area of 20 million people in
southern India and some additional millions in Ceylon, Malaya, and
Africa. But the Tamil language, of Dravidian descent and unre-
lated to Marathi, Bengali, and other north Indian tongues, would
make the films incomprehensible in most of India.

Would film producers, accustomed to visions of wide, growing
markets, now be hemmed into linguistic pockets? Instead of com-
peting in a large area, would they chop it into zones? And could an
area of 20 million, or 21 million, or even 53 million inhabitants sup-
port a fdin industry, if costs should rise steeply in the era of sound?

Curiously, none of the major film centers was situated in the larg-
est linguistic zone, comprising the 140 million Hindi-speaking peo-
ple, mainly in north central India but with additional clusters in
other parts. This Hindi market, in view of its size, would clearly be
the most important; even so, films in Hindi would not be under-
stood in vast areas, including most of the south.

Also curiously, no major film center was located among the 28
million people speaking Telugu, another of the Dravidian lan-
guages. Largely rural and including no metropolitan centers, this
area had never generated film enterprise. But it would be an impor-
tant market, that could not be well served by films in any language
except Telugu.

If the large areas speaking Hindi, Bengali, Telugu, Tamil, and
Marathi might conceivably support regional production, there

1 Statistics in this passage are from Chattcrji, Languages and the Linguistic Prob-
lem, p. 14. 2 Including areas now in East Pakistan.

56

would still be the problem of smaller but by no means negligible
language pockets: Punjabi, 15 million; Gujarati, 11 million; Kan-
nada, 11 million; Malayalam, 9 million; Assamese, 2 million; Oriya,
2 million; Kashmiri, over 1 million; and others, including several
million speaking primitive tribal tongues.

While films in Hindi would obviously acquire importance, this
raised a further question: What, kind of Hindi? For the Hindi-
speaking area offered a linguistic chaos of its own, and had for cen-
turies.

In ancient India, when Sanskrit was the language of 'courts, the
common people already spoke a diversity of Prakrits, which tended
to become more diverse. The huge, populous plains of the upper
Ganges and Indus and their tributaries, comprising a dense mass of
villages and towns, came to represent an extraordinary tangle of re-
gional tongues. Gradually, as a means of communication within this
area, a n*i “bazaar language” emerged during the middle

ages, and Hindi was a development of this. In simplest form it is
often called Hindustani, as the area that produced it was often
called Hindustan

As Hindi in the last century or so began to develop a literature, it
tended to eniich its vocabulary by dipping back into Sanskrit, just
as modern European languages coin new words on Latin stems.
Thus literary Hindi, administrative Hindi, and, in recent years, ra-
dio Hindi ha\e tended to be a Sanskriti/ed Hindi.

Meanwhile the Muslims, having taken hold of the s. c medieval
bazaar language, had amplified it with Persian words, producing a
Persiani/.cd Hindi known as Urdu It is the language of Muslims in
many parts of India. Hyderabad in south central India, for example,
has a substantial cluster speaking this Persiani/ecl Hindi.

Thus the film producer was faced with a problem of practical
and emotional dimensions: Sanskriti/ed Hindi, Persiani/ed Hindi,
lowbrow Hindi— what kind of Hindi?

The dismaying problems facing Indian producers now threw' into
relief their good fortune of earlier ye- *s. It became ci^ar how
uniquely blessed they had been. India, along with its disruptive
forces of. language, religion, and caste, has had other forces making
for unity, and it w r as these the silent film had beer, able to enlist—
while evading the others.

57

DISCORD OF TONGUES: INDIAN LANGUAGE AREAS

58

59

An Indian sense of community has been especially fostered by
common cultural legacies, among the most remarkable of which
have been the great Indian epics, the Ramayana and the Mnhabha-
rata. Like the Iliad and Odyssey , they are oversi/ed talcs of ad-
venture involving gods, heroes, and mortal men, as well as mythi-
cal animals. Each has a unifying thread of plot, holding together a
vast panorama of people and incidents. Like the Bible, each is also
a compendium of folk history, poetry, and wisdom. Told, sung, and
acted long before the Christian era, these tales have conquered the
waves of invaders that have swept over and fragmented India. The
stories found their way eventually, in varying versions, into all the
languages of India, and also spread to other regions of South Asia
such as Ceylon, Burma, Malaya, Sumatra, Java. Throughout this re-
gion, and even beyond it, the characters of the epics appear in song,
dance, drama, painting, sculpture. This bond had magnificently
served the silent film. But now, for the first time, disruptive forces
would come to the fore.

The problems seemed so difficult that, at the first news of the ad-
vance of sound, a number of film production units quietly folded.
Sound would mean investment in expensive equipment, to be im-
ported at much risk. It would apparently call for a studio. A studio,
if soundproofed, would require lighting equipment, seldom used
heretofore in India. Sound and artificial lighting would require
skills not yet available. Above all this would be the problem of un-
certain and restricted markets. Many of the film units that had man-
aged to survive in the silent era had neither resources nor knowl-
edge with which to face the future. We have already mentioned
some of those that now passed into oblivion: British Dominion
Films, Eastern Film Syndicate, General Pictures Corporation, As-
sociated Films, and others. But the climax of these events was to-
tally unexpected. In 1931 Madan Theatres Ltd. began to come apart
at the scams.

Death of a giant

If any company had seemed ready to face the new age, it was
Madan Theatres Ltd. After the death of its founder, J. F. Madan,
the company had undergone several shuffles at the top, but before

60

l° n R J- J* Madan, third of the five Madan sons, had become manag-
ing director. Though disagreements between the brothers caused
intermittent difficulties, J. J. Madan soon appeared to be giving ef-
fective leadership. Under his management the chain of theatres con-
tinued to expand. The company had owned or controlled 51 thea-
tres in 1920; these grew to 85 in 1927 and to 126 in 1931.*

Ihroughout these years there were rumors that Madan Theatres
would be sold to an American film company. T hese rumors, which
caused anxious flurries in Indian film circles, had a basis in fact.
J. J. Madan made a number of trips to Europe and America and
on one ol these he negotiated with Carl Laerninlc, president of Uni-
versal Pictures Corporation. They agreed on sale terms, subject to
approval by their respective companies. Put when he returned to
India, J. J. Madan found his brothers unwilling to approve the ne-
gotiated price. 1 Perhaps they thought it could be bettered by fur-
ther rrego.i v ; ^rr. but die course of e\cn»s wiped out any such
possibility.

In December of 1927, dining the investigations of the Indian
Cinematograph Committee, J. J. Madan testified lor two full days on
behalf of Madan T heatres, and proved a forthright, winning spokes-
man. 0 He seems to have persuaded committee members that charges
of monopoly practices, made by some witnesses against Madan
T heatres Ltd., were “preposterous’' and that the Madan organization
was merely more experienced and alert than its com jailors. 0 Soon
after his testimony lie journejed again to the United Sta s.

In New York he saw A1 Jolson in The Jazz Singer and witnessed
at firsthand its impact on filmgoers and the film industry. He found
the American film world in a frenzy ol retooling and reorganization.
Hollywood was fir ing screen writers and commandeering Broadway
playwrights. Long-established star contracts were being canceled
and new talent wooed. A spirit of panic and plunge gripped many
companies. J. J. Madan caught the fever, ordered sound produc-
tion equipment, and headed hack for India. In 1929 Madan Thca-

8 The 1920 and 1927 figures arc based on livid t ", II, 841-45; the 1931 figure
on an interview with J. J. Madan.

4 Intel view, J. J. Madan.

“See his tcsiiniom and colloquy with committer members, Evidence, II, 835-90.
fl Iiepoy t of the Indian Cinematogiaph Commit ice, pp. 43 45.

61

tres ushered in the talking picture in India by premiering, at the
Elphinstone Picture Palace in Calcutta, Universal's Melody of Love .
Meanwhile construction of a soundproof Madan studio had been
started on the outskirts of Calcutta at Tollygungc— soon to be
dubbed “Tollywood." An ambitious sound production schedule was
planned.

But not everything went according to plan. That autumn
brought the New York stock market crash, spectacular overture to a
long, world-wide depression. Any lingering thoughts of a sale to Uni-
versal evaporated. Universal had other problems.

So did Madan Theatres. The studio was completed on schedule
and the production plans launched. But their success would de-
pend on the conversion of the chain of theatres to sound. The
Madan brothers, involved in innumerable enterprises, many hing-
ing on import and export, found their cash position threatened by
the growing world paralysis. The conversion of the theatres began
to loom as a major obstacle. And the theatres were reporting declin-
ing revenue.

In part this decline may have reflected an attendance drop. But
in part it reflected something quite different. The Madan family be-
gan to receive evidence of a deeply disturbing problem. With the
apparent collaboration of paid inspectors, attendance figures at a
number of Madan theatres were being misreported by paid man-
agers. At an apparently growing number of theatres, profits were be-
ing syphoned away. In a theatre empire as scattered as the Madan
chain— over India, Burma, Ceylon— in areas so forbidding to effi-
cient supervision, how could the company hope to defeat this
threat?

As suddenly as J. F. Madan had plunged into tent “bioscope"
showings in 1902 and launched picture palaces a few years later,
J. J. Madan began to sell theatres in 1931. Once the decision was
made, properties were disposed of in rapid order, largely one by one.
In less than two years only one Madan theatre remained— the Regal
in Calcutta. Presently .the old theatrical company at the Corinthian,
seriously foundering, was liquidated and the theatre converted to
film. As the Opera Cinema, it brought the Madan cinema holdings
back to two theatres. 7
7 Interview, J. J. Madan.

62

Meanwhile Maclan Theatres had become the first Indian pro-
ducing organization to release sound films. It made a number of
short items and on March 14, 1931, put on a program of 31 such
films. They included a hymn chanted in Sanskrit by “lady worship-
pers at the temple of Siva,” a girls’ school chorus singing a Tagore
song, a dance by “the Corinthian girls/ a scene from a Hindi
(Urdu) play, a recitation from Kalidasa, a speech by Indian Nobel
Prize physicist Sir C. V. Raman, and other items including a comic
song. 8 On that same day a Bombay producer, the Imperial Film
Company, became the first to release a sound feature — A lam Am
(Beauty of the World). A number of Madan feature films, some in
Bengali and some in Hindi, lo I lowed this in rapid succession: eight
Madan features were released in 1931, sixteen in 1932." But the
company deflation had not ended. The following year brought a
slowdown in its production. The studio was offered for tent to other
producers f *:::lly it w,r sold. Except for the two surviving cinemas,
the Madan film empire passed out of existence.

Today its rise and fall are an almost forgotten story. Its main me-
morial is a street in the heart of Calcutta, renamed in honor of the
founder of Madan Theatres Ltd. shortly after his death in 1923.
The Bengal Motion Picture Association has its offices on Madan
Street, in an old and rather rundown building, just upstairs from
the Anti-Rowdy Section of the Calcutta Police Department.

Sound .statistics

The disintegration of the one sizable organization in the Indian
film world was ominous news. Even so, the sound era got started.

The statistical story of the Indian sound film in its earliest years
may be briefly summaii/cd. It was, in huge part, a story of new units,
in which individuals IVotn older companies weic brought together
by new capital.

The Bombay producer who made the first talking featiu<\ Alam

8 Filmland, March 21, 1931.

• Indian Talkie, /9J/-56, list, pp. i. xviii. In this list Hindi and Urdu films are
both counted as “Hindi" films. Similaily. gouinment statistics now lump Hindi,
Urdu, and Hindustani together. Wc shall follow the samr* practice, using the
term “Hindi."

63

Ara— in the Hindi language— was Ardeshir M. Irani. Born in 1885,
he had started out in his family's musical instruments business,
grown restless, gone into distribution of foreign films, and finally
joined with tent showman Abdullaly Esoofally in buying the Alex-
andra Cinema in 1914 and building the Majestic Cinema four years
later. Exhibition profits edged the partners info production. After
involvement in several other companies they lauiu lied the Imperial
Film Company in 192f>, 10 and built a studio for it. In 1931 this com-
pany won the sound nice among Bombay producers. The equip-
ment Irani obtained from the United States was virtually “junk" 11
but somehow, via its single-system process, 12 he completed Alam
Ara. The film has never been described as an artistic triumph and
no one seems to have preserved even a fragment of it. But its im-
pact was astonishing. The Majestic theatre was besieged. Tickets
disappeared into the black market. “Police aid had to be sum-
moned to control the crowds. . . . Four-anna tickets were quoted at
Rs. *1 and Rs. 5." ,;| Later, units went on tour with the film, taking
sound projection equipment with them, and everywhere drew surg-
ing crowds.

Thai same year 22 other Hindi films appeared, and all seem to
have made money. Also in 1931, three films in Bengali, one in
Tamil, one in Telugu, appeared in their respective language areas.
The year 1932 brought eight films in Marathi, two in Gujarati. In
1933, 75 Hindi features were made; production in other languages
was also growing. 1 '* Film after film appears to have had a tumultu-
ous reception. Virtually all the films appear to have earned back
their cost. In the 1930s, as one producer recalls wistfully, “almost
all films made money." 13

By 1933 trepidation over the coming of sound had given way to
unbounded optimism. That year the compiler of Who Is Who in

10 Indian Talkie, 1931-56, p. 122.
n Interview, Iiani.

12 In this system, now used mainly for newsreels, sound goes directly onto the pic-
ture negative. In the moie versatile double system, picture and sound are kept
separate foi flexibility in editing, to be combined in the laboratory as one of the
final steps of the production process.

18 “Half a Century in Exhibition I.inc f ” in Indian Talkie , 1931-56 , p. 121.

14 Indian Talkie, 1931-56, list, pp. i-xxvii.

,B Interview, B. N. Rcddi.

64

Indian Filmland, in a jubilant preface, gave expression to the
mood:

What with scanty resources, stepmotherly Government aid, with keen
competition from privileged foreign films, with few technically qualified
rnen, with no interested capitalists, with less interested fans, with actors
and actresses scarcely able to spell their name (for it was thought a dis-
grace by society people to be associated with the screen), with no market
excepting India, with censuring censors, with discouragement to the right,
cheap sneers to the left, despair in front, and criticism from behind, the
Indian Film Industry, thank God, has marched on and on to the field of
victory, battling against a thousand other misfortunes. Has she not made a
giant stride ? 10

What had made possible this sudden reversal of fortune? How had
such startling success been won?

Undoubtedly several factors had been at work. The status that
had suddenly been conferred by film on the vernacular tongues,
in a hi i m :n which .orcign languages had for a thousand years
dominated the counc ils and pleasures of the mighty, was a powerful
influence. There was also the fact that sound had granted the In-
dian producer \ “natural protection.” Though facing new problems,
he now had markets which foreign competitors would find difficult
to penetrate. The protection which the Government of India had
declined to give him th tough a quota system had now been conferred
by the coming of the spoken word. But along with these factors, an
even more potent force had been at work.

A lam A) a included abouL a do/en songs. Anodic early Hindi
film is said to have had about forty songs . 17 An early Tamil film is
said to have had over sixty songs . 18 All the sound films produced
in India in these early years had a profusion of songs. Most also had
dances. Advertisements described some of these films as “all-talking,
all-singing, all-dancing’' features. The Indian sound film, unlike
the sound films of any other land, had from its first moment seized
exclusively on music-urama forms. In doing so, the film had tapped
a powerful current, one that had given it an extraordinary new im-
petus. It was a current that went back sc »e two thousand years.

10 Who Is Wfio in Indian Filmland, p. 1.

17 Indian Talkn , I931- t >6, p. K3.

18 Interview, T. R. Similar am.

65

Mighty river of music

In ancient India, in the Golden Age of Sanskrit theatre, the idea
of drama was already inseparably linked with song, dance, and mu-
sic. In fact, we are told that Sanskrit and some of its derivative lan-
guages had no separate terms for "drama” and "dance," and that
the notion of drama as a separate entity, independent of the other
elements, is still strange and "disconcerting" to many Asians. 10

The dramatic practices followed by Sudraka (ca. 300 a.d.), Kalidasa
(ca. 400 a.d.), and other Sanskrit playwrights were codified in the fa-
mous treatise Natyasastra, ascribed to the sage Bharata. This
work has played, in Indian dramatic theory, a role similar to that
played in the Western world by Aristotle’s Poetics.

Bharata, stressing the importance of music to drama, said: "In-
struments are the very bed of a performance." A Sanskrit drama-
tist, justifying the number of songs in his plays, is said to have ex-
plained that they “delight the hearts of the audience and establish
the emotional continuity." 20

After Kalidasa the Sanskrit theatre went into a long decline and,
after 1000 a.d., virtually expired. Its death was hastened by the
various waves of Muslim invaders who swept over and ruled large
parts of India during the following centuries. The Muslims had no
theatrical heritage and at this time considered drama a sacrilegious
activity. In the Muslim era court patronage of drama ceased
throughout most of India*. Sanskrit plays continued to be written
after ancient models but as an exercise of scholars. Sanskrit, dis-
placed as the language of courts, fell further into disuse, and the
Indian classical heritage became inaccessible to all but a few.
The theatre, for centuries, ceased to exist.

In the nineteenth century, under the British, Indian drama un-
derwent a rebirth. It flourished first in the form of private family
theatres maintained in the large joint-family homes of educated
Indian families, especially in Calcutta. It was in such a private
theatre that Rabindranath Tagore had years of experience as writer
and performer before ^merging, a seasoned artist, on the public

l# Bowers, Theatre, hi the East , pp. 9-10.
” Quoted ibid., pp. 24-25.

66

stage. 21 Both in the private theatres, which flourished from the
1830s, and the public theatres, which began in the 1870s, the new
Indian drama started by adapting and imitating European mod-
els. But almost at once there was a reversion to ancient usage. As
Indian theatre activity grew in various cities, drama, song, and
dance once more became inseparable entities.

To Faubion Bowers, author of the fine, panoramic Theatre in
the East, there is something almost mystical about this. The canons
of theatrical art as practiced by Kalidasa had somehow, he feels, “re-
mained as a kind of invisible law.’' 21 * But other explanations have
been offered.

In India the drama, much in the manner of the drama of ancient
Greece, had originally developed from dances performed at religious
festivals. As these added elements of narrative and dialogue, they be-
came a Lind of folk drama. The jatra , a form of folk drama long
popular h ll engal am 1 surrounding areas apparently stems from
this ancient period. Jatra means festival, but in Bengali the word
also came to be applied to plays performed at festivals. Songs were
always a central featuic of the jatra.

While Sanskrit drama became an ornament of the courts, the ja-
tras continued to entertain the common people. When drama was
banished from the courts, the jatras continued in the villages.
Traveling players, or jahawalas , continued to journey from village
to village, from festival to festival. The theatre w?^ dead but the
jatra, which needed no stage, lived on in unbrok* . continuity.
Without patronage and generally looked down on by the educated,
the jatras were not preserved in literary form but maintained a vigor-
ous life. Ironically, dramas “were written tut seldom acted, while
jatras , which were acted publicly, were not written down till the end
of the nineteenth century.’ 23

There is no doubt that the jatras, crude and naive as they may
have been, had a poverful hold over large audiences. Some jatra -
walas were idolized. The jatra also became at times an instrument
of religious and social reform. The Vdshnava movement, which

21 Sen, “Bengali Drama and Stage.” in Indian Drama , pp. 53-54.

“Bowers’, Theatre in the Hast, p. 18.

“Sen, “Bengali Drama and Stage,” in Indian Drama, p. 46.

67

rose in the sixteenth century and had the power of love as its central
theme, made vigorous use of the jaira and other forms of folk music-
drama for the lyrical propagation of its teachings. 24 And even in
the first decade of the twentieth century Mukunda Das, a Bengali
jatraumla, is said to have used the medium to urge the reform of
Hindu society. 25

Corresponding to the jatras of Bengal and adjoining areas, other
forms of musical folk drama persisted through the centuries in
other parts of India. There were the ojapaJi of Assam, the jashn of
Kashmir, the k athakali of Kerala, the Iccla of Orissa, the srvang of
Punjab. 20 When a new Indian theatre began to develop in the
nineteenth century, these folk-drama forms exerted an immediate
influence: a vast tradition of song and dance was available to the
new theatre. When the sound film appeared, this same reservoir
pressed strongly upon it.

Thus the Indian sound film of 1931 was not only the heir of the
silent film; it also inherited something more powerful and broad-
based. Into the new medium came a river of music, that had flowed
through unbroken millennia of dramatic tradition.

While this strengthened the film, it also had other effects. It
meant an almost mortal blow to the jatras and other kinds of folk
drama. The itinerant cinemas shouldered aside the traveling ja-
trawahis and took their place in the hearts of the people. As for the
reborn theatre, the sound film almost wiped it out with one brush of
its hand. Only gradually has it struggled back to a show of life.

There were other problems too. As the film appropriated folk
song and dance to its purposes, it changed them. In their new en-
vironment they began, quite naturally, to respond to new influences.
The songs were transformed through new instrumentation and new
—sometimes Western— rhythms. Musicologists, just beginning to
discover this same folk music, and to prize the way a song was sung
in Assam in 1875 or in Orissa in 1892, howled in fury. “Hybrid
music!" they cried— and are still crying, in protest against “film mu-
sic." But that is a story for later pages.

24 Dcbi, “Assamese Drama,” ibid., pp. 37-38.

3li Sen, “Bengali Drama and Stage,” ibid., p. 54.

M T hese and other folk-drama forms are discussed in Indian Drama, pp. 36, 75, 79,
95, 97.

68

In 1931 and 1932, at whai seemed a dark moment in Indian film
history, song and dame-in part derived from a tradition of folk
music-drama— played an important role in winning for the sound
film an instant and widening acceptance. “With the coming of the
talkies, wrote a contemporary observer, “the Indian motion pic-
ture came into its own as a definite and distinctive piece of crea-
tion. This was achieved by music." lie also observed that this same
music might, for a time, tend to block the Indian film from Western
markets, and this proved to be a perceptive prophecy. 27 It was also
noted by observers that the obsession with music was a ha/ard to
script values. A film periodical commented: “Cases of singing before
drawing a sword for a fight are nor uncommon." 28 In the Indian film
world writers would have problems.

We have mentioned that the early sound eia was dominated by
new production units. Three such units were to exert special lead-
ership. S.» : mportant ’ as their role that wc must examine each in
detail.

Studio

One new company emerged in ToIIxgunge, Calcutta, in 1930. As
Madan Theatres Ltd. disintegrated mi the follow . g years, New
Theatres Ltd. rose rapidly.

Its creator was a young man still in his twenties, Bircndra Nath
Sit car, son of Sir N. N. Sircar, Advocate-General of Bengal. Born in
1901 in Bhagalpur, he was sent to England tor part of his education,
studying engineering at the University of London. He returned to
India to pursue a career as engineer and builder. But one of his
first building tasks was a cinema, and this contact with the film
world proved a turning point. The young man decided to build a
cinema for himself, and then became involved in two silent film
ventures, of no spec ial distinc tion. But 1 was learning his way.

^Dcsai, “Overseas Market for Indian Films.” in Indian Cinematograph Year
Book , 193S, pp. 291-03.

- H Journal of the Motion Bit litre Society of India, June, 1037

69

Always soft-spoken, described as “the most well-behaved gentle-
man in the film world,” 1 B. N. Sircar was a contrast to many
around him. He would quietly and carefully study a problem,
then decide and proceed. Unlike most film leaders, he seemed to
have no consuming ambition to be performer or director. Putting
the right pieces together was his specialty. His pleasure was to give
a good director the budget he needed, and let him go ahead with-
out interference. B. N. Sircar was the first example in Indian film of
the creative “executive producer.”

Having decided to form a company to produce sound films, he
moved ahead with speed and precision. No doubt his family con-
nections were helpful. As the son of the Advocate-General of Bengal,
he could apparently raise money at will. In fact, the chief investor
in New Theatres Ltd. was said to be the Advocate-General.

By 1931 B. N. Sircar had built and equipped a first-class studio
and laboratory and gathered around him varied talents. In choice
of personnel he most clearly showed the quality of his leadership.

Some of those he chose are already familiar to us. When we last
saw Dhiren Ganguly, the satiric comedian and director of England
Returned, he was trying to recover from his encounter with the
Nizam of Hyderabad and to form a new company in Calcutta. Sev-
eral years of effort resulted in British Dominion Films, which finally
went into action early in 1929, 2 but collapsed with the Indian
switch to sound. After brief association with other ventures, Ganguly
threw in his lot with Sircar and under the New Theatres banner
directed several comedies before going elsewhere. The most suc-
cessful of these, made in Bengali and Hindi versions, was Excuse
Me, Sir. 3

Another of those recruited by Sircar was Debaki Bose. This in-
tense young nationalist, after writing and acting in Flames of
Flesh, had gone on to directing— for British Dominion and others.

1 Who Is Who in Indian Filmland, p. 25.

* Amrita Bazar Patrika, February 10, 1929.

'Ganguly has explained its i? gencsis as follows. Literary piracy and brain-picking
were a constant problem, 'therefore, when asked what his next film would be,
Ganguly usually answered, “Excuse me, sir," and went on to another subject.
When people began to ask when Excuse Me, Sir would be finished, he decided
he should produce such a film, and did. Interview, Ganguly.

70

One of the silent films he directed, Aparadhi (The Culprit), made for
a short-lived company called Barua Pictures, won high critical praise.
But it was sound that brought out the real talents of Bose. Steeped
in the traditions of the Vaishnava movement and its musical evan-
gelism, he became a specialist in lyric, dcvo ional dramas.

His first talking picture assignment under the New Theatres ban-
ner was Chandidas (Cliandidas), the story of a Vaishnavite poet-saint
of the sixteenth century. Congenial to Bose, the topic was also
suited to the developing music-drama of the screen. The film was
saturated with music. It included songs based on the work of Chan-
didas and also much background music. Through Chandidas , De-
baki Bose taught the Indian film world what could be done with
background music. He showed that it could take over functions of
dialogue and, while reducing dialogue, intensify it. 1 * * 4

Chandidas , produced in the Bengali language, was released in
193Ii. Iliiuiiuously popular in Bengal, it put Bose in the front rank
among directors. Its showings were necessarily limited in other areas
of India. But Bose followed it in 1933 with Puran B ha gat (The Dev-
otee), in Hindi, which “put New Theatres on the all-India map
and created a veritable sensation.”’'’ Such was the appeal of its music
that it scored successes even in non-Hindi-speaking areas. In 1934
Bose’s Sec fa (Seeta), which had been made in Bengali the pre-
vious year, became the fust Indian film to be shown at the yenice
festival. In 1937 his Vuiyapathi (Vidponthi), ano # I« * film about jl
Vaishnavite poet-saint, was released in both Beng, and Hindi
versions, and scored new triumphs. A musicologist ol the Univer-
sity of Delhi has put Cidyapathi . along with Chandidas , among the
“revolutionary classics” which alter cd “the conception of the quality
and lunc pon ol music in a film.”* 5 6

1 A print of Chandidas has been ptesened by Ccorgc Eastman House, Rochester.

N.Y. It may be incut iom ! tli.it Nitin Nose, camciaman fen Chandidas. later di-
rected a Hindi \cision for New Ihcatics. lie and his brothel Mukitl Hose, sound
engineer for New 'Ihcatics. inlioduced into India the piercrording ->f songs, to

liberate the camera dining musical nuinbe’s Nitin Rose 1 later wen .•> Bombay

And became one of its leading directors. He a litst cousin once lcinovcd of

Satyajit Ray.

6 Bhanja and N. K. (i.. "Fioin Janiai Sashti to Pather PanchahP in Indian
Talkie , 19)1-56, p. H.S.

°Bhatia, “Film Music." Seminar, December,

71

The impact of some of these films may be suggested by the pil-
grimage of Kidar Sharma. As a student at Punjab University, in
northwestern India, he had just finished his work for the M.A. in
English when he saw Pitran Baghat. The film was such a “revela-
tion" to him that he set off on a 1,500-milc journey from Amritsar
to Calcutta solely in the hope of working with Debaki Bose. Arriv-
ing in Tollygunge, he found New Theatres a growing, bustling or-
ganization. Almost entirely self-sufficient, it already had a payroll
of several hundred people. Sharma served briefly as an extra, then
was able to hang on as sign painter.

One day, as he painted a billboard, B. N. Sircar parked his car be-
side Sharma’s ladder. Getting out, he expressed approval of the
work. Sharma said: “If you would take this brush from my hand,
sir, and put a pen in its place, I might show you something bet-
ter." B. N. Sircar, amused, gave him an adaptation exercise. All this
eventually enabled Kidar Sharma to work under his guru, his men-
tor, Debaki Bose, on the production of Vidynfmthi. Meanwhile it
also won him a chance to write Hindi dialogue for what became an-
other India-wide New Theatres sensation, Devdas (Devdas). But
this brings us to a man who played perhaps the most spectacular
role in the rising fortunes of New Theatres— the director ol Devdas,
Prince Barua. 7

Prajnathesh Chandra Barua, son of the Rajah of Gauripur,
was born in 1903 in Gauripur, Assam. After graduating in 1924
from Presidency College, Calcutta, the handsome young Prince left
on a European tour during which he took interest in all the arts
including film, delighting especially in the works of Rene Clair and
Ernst Lubitsch. Returning to India, he faced the problem of what
to do.

He had innumerable interests, and everything came easily. An
avid reader and music lover, he was also considered outstanding as
horseman, marksman, dancer, tennis player, billiard player, hunter.
In his native Assam he had already bagged several dozen tigers, a
rhinoceros, and innumerable boars— although it is said he blanched
at the sight of a cockroach.

7 Kidar Sharma also became a leading Bombay director.

72

anthimala. Thus Devdas brought fame to many people. And virtu-
ally a generation wept over Devdas.

Although romantic-tragic in plot, the script for Devdas achieved
a naturalness of tone that was, in its day, almost revolutionary.
When Kidar Sharma completed the Hindi version of the Barua
scenario, one reaction was: “T his isn't dialogue, this is the way we
talk/’ 11 It was precisely what Hama had wanted.

In Indian drama, such dialogue had never been an objective.
Dramatic literature had long been associated with the language
of courts. Perhaps lor this reason, dramatists in the vernacular
tended to write in a florid style, reaching lor a remoteness associated
with status. Rut Barua had been exposed to European naturalistic
trends and wanted to put aside such language. He also demanded
from his actors a quiet, natural lone. An actress who joined New
Theatres from another company was astonished at how quietly the
actors talked

It so happened that Saiga 1, the new discovery who played and
sang the lead in the Hindi Devdas, had a sore throat when the songs
were filmed. He had been a typewriter salesman, earning Rs. 80 per
month, when Sircar, interested in his singing \oice, offered him Rs.
200 to join New T heatres. But when he began to sing for Devdas,
his voice cracked. The songs weie postponed, but the sore throat per-
sisted. Finally he tried the songs in a cjuiet, soft tone. It fitted the
acting style Barua was trying to achieve, as well as thv, •lume limita-
tions of microphone and sound track. In this way, p illy by acci-
dent, was born a singing style that soon spread over India, and
that somewhat resembled a simultaneous Western development, the
microphone crooner.

In the story of Devdas the hero— like Barua himself — was the
son of a wealthy family of the ruling /amindar class. 1,1 In the story

11 Interview, Kidar Slianna

12 Interview, Khotc.

"•The /amindar was an oflu ial instituted by the Muslims and retained b' the Brit-
ish. He operated a tax-collect ing concession in *i specific* tcniloiy. !■ paid the
British -con trolled government a stipulated amii i even ne; collections from the
people of his district were his concern. Zamindais were powerful, often very
wealthy. Some became benevolent despots in tlieii territories. The /amindar
was often treated respectfully in films of ilw !!>30s but since independence has
become a favorite villain ol pciiod lilnis.

75

Devdas falls in love with Parbati, with whom he has played since
childhood, and who is the daughter of a poor neighboring family.
The time comes for Devdas to go away to Calcutta for university
studies. The parting is deeply felt by both. While he is away, her
father arranges a marriage for her. She loves only Devdas but, obey-
ing her father, prepares to suffer in silence the role of dutiful Hindu
wife. The marriage takes place. Devdas, as a result, takes to drink.
Among those who befriend him in Calcutta is Chandra, a “dancing
girl” or prostitute, who is so anxious to save him that she is willing
to give up her profession for him. Parbati, hearing of his decline,
comes to see him lo try to steer him away from his life of drinking.
He says that, in the hour of final need, he will come to her for help.
She returns to her life of duty. Eventually comes a day when a man,
haggard from long illness, is found dead outside the high walls of
her house. His remains are burned at the funeral ghats. Within her
walls, Parbati hears the news that her Devdas is dead.

There are several things to be said about this story. Its “tragic”
ending is at variance with Indian classical tradition, which permit-
ted, only a happy ending. Tragic endings were not used in Sanskrit
drama and are even considered to be at odds with the Hindu view of
existence. A life can hardly be interpreted as tragedy when life itself
is only a transitional state. However, the tragic ending had become
common in India before Devdas , especially in Bengali literature
and diama, but this was. apparently part of their European rather
than Indian heritage.

To some extent Devdas was a film of social protest. It carried an
implied indictment of arranged marriage and undoubtedly gave
some satisfaction on this store to those who hate this institution. The
powerful appeal of Devdas to the young must have been based in
part on this element. Yet once this theme has set the story in motion,
the film Devdas seems far less interested in the social problem than
in the suffering. There was more than a little of German Welt-
schmerzlicbc about Devdas , and it seems to have done much to pop-
ularize the doomed hero in Indian film. Doom itself has appeared
to become irresistibly attractive. Very often artist and audience
have needed only the flimsiest justification to believe in, and share,
the doom of a hero. If Western films have erred toward forced

76

able reception in England to open doors there 35 for Rai. Once
moic he launched an international production, this time Anglo-
Indian, with English capital, and with sound. This was the begin-
ning of Karma (Fate), in which Dcvika Rani co-starred with Hi-
mansu Rai. 30

In 1930 the couple went to India for r any months of exterior
shooting and intensive study of Hindi; then they returned to
London s Stoll Studios lor the interiors, including the recording of
the songs. For every shot, two takes were made: one in English, one
in Hindi. Because of a limited budget, two takes were usually the
limit, except lor the songs.

The film took over two years to complete. It was a modern story
about a beautilul young maharani (Dcvika Rani) who wanted
“progress"— never explained —and her love for a piince of a neigh-
boring Indian stale (llimansu Rai) who also wanted ‘ progress*' but
whose LiJiu, die makuaja, did not. Mauiage brings her, by the
rules of Hindu society, under her lather-in-law \ authority, and this
creates the conflict of the film. It was premiered in London in May,
1933. Critics had some reservations about the story, which a few 7
considered naive, but all fell at the Icet of Dcvika Rani. “A glo-
rious creature,” the E)a called her. “Dcxika Rani's large vehety eyes
can express ever) emotion.” 37 The Sews Chronicle declared that
“she totally eclipses the ordinary film star. All her gestures spc # ak,
and she is grace pci sonified. ” ;{s The Sim reported tk*.. ‘her English
is pcrlec tion.” 3!)

Fox Film Corporation now wanted Dcvika Rani to star in a film
about Bali, and a German producer wanted her for a film about a
snake charmer. But Himansu Rai said: “Let us learn from these
people, bin let us pul the knowledge to work in our countr y.” 40

3r> Rntha, The f ilm Till Xou\ p 325. found the films “singular!* uninteresting."
But British capital showed increasing confidence in Himansu Rai. A British dis-
tributor had guaranteed 1 1 (.ennan hackers /_ 7.500 foi Bulisli lights in Shiraz.
Evidence, III, 1004. British capital also gave t fa ail advance guaiauiee on A
Tin me of Dice, and was leadv to take the lull 1 isk on Rai’s uc*M \entuie
90 A piint of Knmia has been presen ed in the \aiional I* i Ini Archive o r *e Biitisfi
Film Institute. London. Sita Devi did not app 1 in Knnnn Her mh cesses in
three Rai films won her a Mailing position in the Madan company Not having
mastered Hindi she slipped hour the public e ve alter sound.

: ' 7 Eta, May 17. 1033. :,s Xnes Chronicle, Max 11, 1033.

* Star, Ma> 15. 1033. ,0 Interview. Dev ik.» Rani Rociich

93

Their film future, they knew, must be in India. With the advent
of sound, this was more certain than ever. Such was the stake when
Karma , in its Hindi version, had its Bombay premiere on January
27, 1934. Its reception once more opened the doors of Indian in-
vestors.

That year Bombay Talkies Ltd. was formed and a studio built.
Under the painstaking supervision of Himansu Rai, it purchased
the most modern equipment. In 1935 a stream of Hindi produc-
tions began to emerge from Bombay Talkies Ltd. Franz Osten, di-
rector of The Light of Asia, Shiraz, and A Throw of Dice, had joined
the staff. A handful of other technicians came from Germany and
England. Otherwise, the staff of more than four hundred artists,
technicians, assistants, and others was Indian. It became, like New
Theatres and Prabhat, a largely self-sufficient organization.

Mindful of the exhilarating days with the Pommer unit, Himansu
Rai and Devika Rani soon instituted a trainee program. Each year
Rai interviewed scores of job candidates, many sent by Indian uni-
versities. Within a few years the names of a number of younger
Bombay Talkies staff members were known throughout India.
They included actors Ashok Kumar (he began as laboratory assist-
ant), Raj Kapoor (he began as clapper boy), Dilip Kumar; producer
S. Mukherjce; writer K. A. Abbas.

Himansu Rai's desperate efforts for international co-production
had perhaps been ahead of their time. For years to come, with the
difficulties of sound, film producers in most countries would concen-
trate on home problems. Bombay Talkies Ltd. would do likewise.
But co-production would, in later decades, once more emerge as a
challenging and necessary idea, and in India the pioneer work of
Himansu Rai would remain a reference point for all such ven-
tures.

Bombay Talkies now settled down to a schedule of about three
features a year. Some, like Savitri (Savitri), produced in Hindi in
1937, were mythologicals. This story from the Mahabharata had al-
ready been the bas^is of five different sound films in four Indian
languages, 41 but the Bombay Talkies version was admired for its

" Indian Talkie, 1931-56, list, pp. i-xxvii.

94

of its area but also attempting, often through imported talent, to
reach into and exploit other language areas. A listing, by location,
of the production companies of 1937 shows the two tendencies at
work: 4 *

Bangalore 2

Bczwada 2

Bombay 34

Calcutta 19

Coimbatore 8

Dharwar 1

Erode 2

Kolhapur 6

Kumbakonam 1
Lahore

Lucknow 1

Madras 3b

Madurai 7

Ncllorc 1

Poona 4

Rajahm undry 2

Salem 6

Tanjore 1

Trichinopoly 2

Trupur 2

Vi/agapatam 1

The smaller centers usually began by concentrating on one
language. The larger centers felt from the start that they must work
also in others. Sometimes a film script, after proving a success in one
language, would be reenacted in another, with an entirely new
cast. In this way Dcvdas, after its success in Bengali, was repeated by
New The «u ics in flinch and later in Tamil.

But a producer could save various costs by shooting two or more
versions simultaneously. The “double versions’* began almost im-
mediately. In these, each separate shot is done first in one language,
then in another. The operation may call for two complete casts, al-
though dance numbers ma\ serve both versions. The shout of “Ben-
gali take!,” followed a few minutes later by “Hindi take!,” became
common in Calcutta studios, while other combinations were hejard
in Bombay. Occasionally a bilingual actor might app< in both films
of a double version. But the prevailing tendency was > use double
casts, and this is one reason why film companies grew rapidly in
si/e. The large 1 companies acquired acting staffs representing two
or more major languages.

Calcutta almost at once achieved a monopoly over Bengali pro-
duction, using this as a base for forays into other language mar-
kets, especially Hindi. The B'mgali-Hindi double version became a
standard activity at New Theatres and other Calcutta companies—
such as the Last India Film Company, launched in 1932.

Bombay and nearby cities, including *ona and Kolhapur, mean-
while took charge of Marathi production, using this as a base for

* Indian Cincmatoguijfh Year Book, 1938, pp. 283-87. Lahore later became part
of Pakistan.

99

incursions into Hindi and other language areas. Since Bombay was
close to the Hindi area and had a fairly large sprinkling of Hindi-
speaking people— such as factory workers who had migrated from
rural areas— it was in a good position to take a prominent role in
Hindi production.

The two leading languages of southern India, Tamil and Telugu,
were for some years the focus of mighty struggles. When sound be-
gan in Bombay and Calcutta, there was no sound-production
equipment or studio in Madras, the center of the Tamil area. The
large Tamil market looked open to others. In 1932 and 1933, Ta-
mil films were produced in Bombay by the Imperial Film Company,
producer of A lam Ata, and a new company called Sagar Movietone;
in Calcutta by New’ Theatres and the East India Film Company;
and in Poona by Prabhat. For these films the companies usually ar-
ranged junkets of Tamil-speaking actors from Madras. This sort of
activity stirred southerners into action.

Among those in Madias who had some film experience was K.
Subrahmanyam, a young criminal lawyer with a passion for the arts.
Iri the late 1920s, while getting a foothold in law, he had made side
earnings selling stories lor silent films to a newly formed company,
Associated Films. This had been started by a professional strong
man, Raja Sandow, who after playing hero roles for Chandulal
Shall in Bombay decided to lake up production in his native prov-
ince. Associated Films* soon ‘Mailed for want of business-like in-
stinct,” 40 but meanwhile the young criminal lawyer had won local
notoriety as a film expet t. In 1931 a Madras financier, intent on pro-
ducing a Tamil-language film, invited Subrahmanyam to write and
direct it.

There were still no available facilities, other than three glass-
roofed studios, and it was decided to shoot in the open air. One
difficulty was that the financier had had a quarrel with a former busi-
ness associate, who came each clay and parked his baby Austin close
to the production. As soon as he heard “Silence, please! . . . sound
. . . camera!” he wqmIcI start honking his horn. This persuaded the
financier to settle with his former associate. And, although Pavalak-
kodi (Pavalakkodi) was completed and was a box-office success— it

“ Who Is Who in Indian Filmland, p. 11.

100

had fifty songs— it persuaded Subrahmanyam that there were better
ways of making films.

That same year an entrepreneur in Salem, T. R. Sundaram, took
a group of actors to Calcutta, rented the Madan studio in Tolly-
gunge for three months at a cost of Rs. 25.000, and completed a Ta-
mil-language film that proved so profitable in the south that he
went north for six more junkets, all profitable. 17 Meanwhile Subrah-
manyam was offered financial backing lot similar junkets, for
which he rented the East India Film Company studio in Calcutta.
On the first such junket he took sixty-five people, renting a three-
story house for them for three months and a car to shuttle them to
and from the East India studio. The studio supplied all technical
personnel, including its editor. 1 " All the films were financial tri-
umphs. Other producers ananged similai trips to Bombay.

The vistas of expanding profits meanwhile spurred construction
of up-ti/-viaie southern studios. Sc\fi a 1 such studios were built dur-
ing 1935-30 in Madras Salem, and Coimbatore. These included a
studio built jointly by several Madras producers, organized as the
Motion Pic tine Producers Combine. Theiealtcr Madias was ne\cr
dependent on noitliem studios. The pioduccis in the Madias area
now began to take charge of Tamil production, and gradually also
took control of production lot the nearby Telugu aiea, as well as
the important Kannada and Malay alam language groups. By # the
1910s Madras, grown powei lul ihiough it** grip on tlu - markets, also
began to make astonishingly successful lor ays into i ndi produc-
tion. In the 1950s it would in some years pass Bombay in volume of
production.

Thus Bombay, Calcutta, and Madias became the three major cen-
ters. Each .had its own language specialties, but for each the Hindi
market remained a target. 1 1 ere lay the big stakes.

There is an irony and a pioblem in all this. As the successful
1930s chew to a close, Prince Barua, whose native tongue was Assa-
mese and who also spoke fluent Bengali and English, was being
pressed to make his supieme ellorts in 1 uli. Similarly in Poona, Y.
Shantaram, whose native tongue was Maiatlii, was necessarily doing

47 Interview, T. R. Suiulaiam.

4S Interview. Subrahmanyam.

101

his principal work in Hindi. TV partners of Bombay Talkies, Hi-
mansu Rai and Devika Rani, both products of Bengali culture, were
likewise concentrating on Hindi. Even in Madras, speakers of Ta-
mil were becoming producers of Hindi films.

What was this Hindi?

Bengal prided itself on a long tradition of Bengali culture, which
had already thrived four centuries earlier in the era of Chandidas
and Vidyapathi. The Marathi language also had a long literary
heritage, including revered poet-saints of the thirteenth century and
the beloved Tukaram of the seventeenth century. As for Tamil, it
claimed a literature going back at least to the fourth century. 40
But Hindi was a new development, of meager literary background.
For many producers it was as devoid of associations as Esperanto.
Yet the troublesome structure of the Indian language map de-
manded concentration on Hindi. If many observers have found in
the Indian film an increasing rootlessness, an increasing divorce
from reality, one reason may be that many of its finest talents have
had to exert themselves in a language not their own, spoken by
people from whom they were both physically and culturally re-
moved. This became, and will remain, one of the agonies of the In-
dian film.

We now list some of the companies that achieved success in the
decade of the 1930s. Although seldom reaching the quality of New
Theatres, Prabhat, and Bombay Talkies, the following contributed
to the growth of the industry and the shaping of trends.

In the Bombay area:

imperial film company. Already mentioned as producer of the
first talking feature, A lam Ara. An aggressive company of varied
output, it averaged seven features a year during the 1930s. It made
films in Hindi, Marathi, Tamil, and Telugu; it made the first film
in Burmese; for export to Iran, it made three films in Persian. 60 Dur-
ing the decade its staff numbered several hundred artists, techni-
cians, and others.

An interesting Imperial actress, star of A lam Ara, was Zubeida,
a Muslim princess. Her career was symptomatic of a fairly steady
shift in Muslim attitudes toward film and drama throughout much

40 Sastri, History of South India , pp. 355-59.

Indian Talkie , 1931-56, p. 24.

102

of India. Zubeida, daughter of His Highness the Nawab of Sachien
and the Begum Fatima, had been permitted to enter films at the age
of twelve; she was nineteen when she starred in Alam Am. “She
looks very innocent and charming with her beautiful oblong face."
Her two sisters also began screen careeis in their early teens and
eventually their mother, the Begum, turned to film direction and be-
came “India's first lady director.” 51

A more important Imperial star of the 1930s was Sulochana, born
Ruby Meyers. Earning Rs. 2,500 per month in 1933, site was report-
edly the highest-paid actress in India. 52 A Sulochana smash hit of
1934, produced in Hindi, was Indira, M.A. (Indira, M.A.). Its cen-
tral character was a highly Westernized Indian girl, complete with
Master of Arts degree, who forsakes the fine young man she was en-
gaged to marry and weds a Weslcrni/ed wastiel, with unhapp) re-
sults. Westernized characters in Indian films, wearing Western
clothes, Aiiioking, drinking, and inteispersing their speech with
English phrases— “Con ect!,” “If you please,” “My dear fellow,”
“Don't mention it”— were usually foolish, \illainous, oi ridiculous.

sagar MovnnoNi:. Already briefly mentioned. The proprietor,
Chimanlal Desai. had begun as a retail coal dealer in Bangalore,
then turned film exhibitor, branched into distribution, and even-
tually came to Bombay to form Sagar Movietone, about the time
Irani was planning Alam A) a. Desai, as distributor, handled some
of the Alam Am road tours and was abounded rn re public re-
sponse.

Having theatre interests in southern India, Desai quite naturally
turned to production in Tamil and Tciugu. After the rise of produc-
tion in Madras, Sagar Movietone concentrated on northern tongues,
mainly Hindi. It produced the first film in Gujarati, and also pro-
duced in Punjabi. During the 1930s it averaged six productions a
year. Never pioneering in theme or treatment, it scored substantial
successes.

A Sagar success of 1937, made in Hindi, was Jagirdar (bigirtlar).
As described in the film page of the / 'idti, it had that lice and
unconcerned dependence on accident and misunderstanding that
was-and still is-charac teristic of the work of the less distinguished

“ Who Is IVlio in Indian Filmland, pp. 4?t. 6H, 72.

M Ibid., p. 67.

103

producers. It told of a young man, Jagirdar, who secretly marries
Neela, a village girl, but parts from her when he is “suddenly”
called abroad. She receives news that he has been shipwrecked. She
“becomes a disgraced mother” and attempts suicide, but is saved by
a village boy who marries her and acknowledges the child as his
own. Neela is very happy with her child, when her long-lost hus-
band, having survived the shipwreck, returns. The Hindu reviewer
adds: “This cleverly woven plot finds an end in a solution unex-
pectedly provided by destiny.” 53

wadia movietone. Specialists in stunt films and also producers of
mythologicals. Stunt films stemmed from the world-wide successes of
Douglas Fairbanks and the serials of Pearl White, Eddie Polo, 54
and others. Stunt films continued to hold their popularity through-
out the 1930s. They were generally period dramas full of struggles
on the edges of precipices, replete with heroic action.

Typical of the genre was Huntcrwali (Girl Hunter), a Wadia box-
office triumph of 1935, made in Hindi. It tells of a princess who sets
out to rescue her father, held captive by a scheming minister. She
disguises herself as a man and roams the countryside, robbing the
rich to feed the poor. She meanwhile meets a peasant boy and they
fall in love. They fight side by side against overwhelming odds and
eventually rescue the king.

Stories of this vein still command a vast audience in several lan-

f

guage areas. In the 1950s we shall find such films playing a surpris-
ing political role.

Wadia Movietone was founded in 1933 by Jamshed B. H. Wadia,
whose education included an M.A. in English and a law degree. He
was a tutor in English at St. Xavier’s College in Bombay before tak-
ing up heroic films. His brother Homi Wadia joined him, directing
Huntenvali and many other Wadia successes.

Although their education seldom intruded on their stunt films,
the Wadias pursued a notable side interest. Like a number of

M Hindu, August 20, 1937.

M The American Eddie #oIo, now almost forgotten in the United States, was
among the most popular film heroes in India in the caily 1920s. In 1927 a head-
master of a high school in Hyderabad, Sind, told the Indian Cinematograph
Committee: “I once asked my class of 50 bo)S what was their ambition in life.
Five boys wrote. T o be Eddie Polo.’ ” Evidence , I, 675. Many Indian producers
today have vivid memories of the films of Eddie Polo.

104

In the Calcutta area:

EAST INDIA FILM company. Founded in 1932 by R. L. Khemka, a
dealer in automobile parts, who had an appreciation of good equip-
ment. Its activities in the 1930s were varied and venturesome. Be-
sides producing in Bengali, Hindi, Tamil, and Telugu, it made a
film in Persian by importing a cast from Tran and another for the
Malayan market by importing a cast from Singapore. 57 In the 1930s
it had a payroll of 300 artists, technicians, and others, and an output
averaging eight films a year.

Its early films in Tamil and Telugu involved the import of talent
from southern India. This led southern producers to rent the East
India Film Company studio for production junkets. When this in
turn led to studio building in Madras, a number of East India Film
Company technicians migrated south to the new studios. Calcutta
technicians from East India Film Company thus played a promi-
nent roie in tlic iise of Madras as a production center.

Early in the Second World War the studios of Fast India Film
Company were requisitioned for British army use.

Others in the Calcutta area in the 1930s: aurora, a company that
had begun as a traveling cinema in I913, 5H operating in Bengal and
Assam, and had later gone into production on a modest scale; dur-
ing the 1930s it produced in Bengali, Assamese, Tamil, and Telugu;
radha films, producing in Bengali, Oriya, and, for a time, T^mil
and Telugu; kali, produc ing in Bengali, Oriya, and j . ugu. 50

In the Madras area:

madras united artistes corporation. Formed bv K. Subrahman-
yam in 1930 as a by-product of his production trips to Calcutta. His
partner in the venture was S. D. Subbalakshmi, leading feminine star
in those tcurs. During the late 1930s the company had a payroll of
350 artists, tec hnicians, and olheis. This included an orchestra of 22
musicians which did radio concerts. During the 1930s the company
produced in Tamil and Telugu, latei expanding into Malayalam
and Kannada.

The earliest Tamil and Telugu fill; were mythologicals, but
Madras United Artistes soon added socials. Subrahmanyam, one of

57 Interview, Khemka, and Indian Talkie, 1931 * 6 , list, pp. i-xxvii.

68 Evidence , II, 666. R9 Indian Talkie , 1931-^b, list, pp. i-xxvii.

107

Tamil production: subrahmanyam’s Bfllnyogitii (child saint), 1936,

FEATURING A BRAHMIN WIDOW. MADRAS UNITED ARTISTES

the few Brahmins among early Madras producers, outraged the
Brahmin community by the production of Balayogini (Child Saint),
made in the Tamil language in 1938. It told of a Brahmin widow
who, driven out by a rich relative, decides to live with a low-caste
servant who shelters her and her little daughter. The story offended
orthodoxy on several grounds, but Subrahmanyam Compounded the
offense by persuading a Brahmin widow to play the role of the
Brahmin widow. Brahmin widows were expected to shave their
heads, wear only white saris— always covering the head— and live a
prescribed life of austerity and seclusion. The sight of a widow was
a bad omen. The sight ol a widow on the screen was defiance of
taboo on a grand scale. The film was especially successful because it
introduced a new child actress, letting her speak simple wisdom and
give voice to a skepticism that, in effect, heaped ridicule on caste
restrictions. The child actress at once became one of the most cele-
brated film personalities of southern India, and “perhaps there was 00
*° Gopalakrishnan, “Four Decades of Tamil Films,” Filmfate, April 20, 1962.

ing in Tamil but later adding other south Indian languages;
srinivas cinktonk, producing in Tamil; vf.l pictures, producing in
Tamil and Telugu; royal talkie, producing in Tamil and Tel-
ugu. 61

One big family

The Indian film world, at the end of the 1930s, was marked by a
feeling of confidence. It was also beginning to have the look of an
organized industry. A Motion Picture Society of India had been
formed in 1935, followed rapidly by groups with regional empha-
sis: in Calcutta, the Bengal Motion Picture Association (1936); in
Bombay, the Indian Motion Picture Producers Association (1937);
in Madras, the South Indian Film Chamber of Commerce (1938).
Each began to issue journals, bulletins, statistical volumes. The
industry by now the focus of a trade press of sixty-eight periodi-
cals, of which half were in English, half in various Indian lan-
guages.* 2 All in all, as the industry in 1938 took note of its twenty-
fifth anniversary, it had a look of solidity and self-respect.* 3

The developing feeling of strength was furthered by the structure
of the companies that, up to this time, dominated Indian film pro-
duction. The big companies of the 1930s, like the Phalke company
before them, seemed to be extensions of the joint-family system.
Many of the companies had, in fact, clusters of revives. In Ificiia
this is not considered nepotism but normal, conin', ldable family
loyalty.

Each company had a wide range of personnel and almost never
had to turn to outsiders for help or service *. Each had its own labo-
ratory; this was long assumed to be essential. Each had its studio or
studios and its preview theatre.

01 Indian Talkie , 193l-*>6, list, pp. i-xxvii.

08 Indian Cinematograph Year Hook, J93S, p 14.

08 Marred, to he sure, by sonic discoidanl notes. A Bombay trade paper asked
Gandhi for a message of congratulation to the film incl usti y on it*’ nnhersary,
and received this message from the Mahatma’s * nvtaiy: "As a rule Gandhi gives
messages only on rare occasions— and these only foi causes whose virtue is ever
undoublftil. As for the Cinema Indus! t\ lie has the least interest in it and one
may not expect a word of appreciation fioni him." Reported in Dipali, June 16,
1939.

Ill

Inevitably new interests and needs grew into new departments.
Bombay Talkies maintained a school for children of staff members,
which also became a school for child actors. Prize possessions of the
costume department became a “museum” of historic costumes.
Books acquired for reference became a “library" of 3,000 books
and manuscripts. Prabhat had its “zoo," including tigers, deer, and
birds. 64 Prabhat also had a swimming pool, for recreation as well
as production needs. Bombay Talkies had its own physician, who
operated a clinic and also supervised the sanitary practices of the
canteen, which served breakfast, lunch, dinner, and— for scene
builders— midnight snacks.

The educational impact of organizations of this sort was consid-
erable. New Theatres required its staff members to be on hand ev-
ery day during working hours, whether or not there was an assign-
ment. When not acting, an actor might be put to fencing or riding
lessons. Or he might be given temporary technical duties. At Bom-
bay Talkies an actor was expected to do some work as a cutter, as
an essential part of his film training. Similarly, a technician might
occasionally perform.

Although some performers were “stars" in that they w'ere widely
known and featured in publicity, no real star system had as yet de-
veloped. The star was an employee; he or she was not the pivot of
planning and was not in control.

Producer and director w r ere the dominant figures. Throughout
the 1930s the difference between the salaries of top actors and other
actors remained small by the standards of later years. Throughout
this period Rs. 3,000 per month remained the ceiling for star sala-
ries at several of the larger companies. 65 An established lesser actor
might get Rs. 600; a beginner, Rs. 60.

Looked at from the vantage point of later decades, the compa-
nies of the 1930s carried a large “overhead" organization. In truth,
the self-sufficient studio could exist only because of the low sala-
ries that were considered acceptable. Basic salaries in India were of
course kept low by the existence of tens of millions living on the
edge of destitution. In addition, the 1930s were a time of depres-

64 Fathelal, “Prabhat Was a Training School,” in Indian Talkie , 1931-56, p. 139.

* Indian Talkie, 1931-56, pp. 127, 143.

112

In 1941 Shantaram left Prabhat to “produce under his own ban-
ner." In 1942 one of Sagar’s leading directors, Mehboob R. Khan-
who had directed its Jagirdar — began producing “under his own
banner." This process was briefly arrested by a war shortage of raw
film. A government allocation system, favoring “established pro-
ducers," gave them a temporary respite. During 1944 and 1945 the
one-big-family studios lived on, uneasily, with the aid of this spe-
cial protection. Then the fragmentation began again. By the end
of the decade the onc-big-family studio was an extinct species.
Those that survived in name had substantially changed their struc-
ture.

The production statistics of the 1940s tell the story of the decline
and fall of the one-big-family studio. The decline was paralleled by
the rise of the independent producer— independent of overhead—
who used '• rented studio and free-lance talent. The new producer
might be a complete outsider, or a star or director who had found a
backer. Many a studio owner, tenting his studio to these new pro-
ducers, gradually became dependent on them— and so helped to en-
trench the new *■ stem and destroy the old. llete are the figures: 0 **

New pi od turn

Total n umbei of

Number of

releasing films

piodu(( is releasing

films i eleased

(lining they cm

films dining the year

during the year

1940

42

100

171

1941

46

103

170

1942

55

108

163

1 94 3

46

1 10

159

1944

28

Cl

126

1945

10

84

99

1946

66

151

200

1947

125

2H

283

1948

126

228

289

1950

113

197

241

But these arc only the statistics. 'The shilt was not only one in busi-
ness practices. Behind the figures lay vast changes in the ch nate of
an industry. To understand them fully, * . must look beyond them
to other changes— in India and the world.

00 Indian Motion Picture Almanac and \Yho*s II ho. 1953, p. 2J8.

115

A State of War

For India, as lor all the world, the 1930s were a time of mounting
tension. Throughout the decade there was the sense of coming
world struggle. Wars in Manchuria, Spain, and Ethiopia, fiercely
fought as they were, seemed only rehearsals for some mightier Ar-
mageddon, in which the world powers of the West would be, once
more, under mortal strain. In India the conviction grew that a de-
cisive moment of history was in the making, which would yield to
India her freedom.

Tragically, this confidence brought with it rising bitterness. As
deliverance seemed nearer, the structure of the future independent
India became an increasingly burning issue. At the start of the dec-
ade, the differing views of the Indian National Congress, the All-
India Muslim League, and other groups still seemed to offer hope
of conciliation. By the end of the decade this was no longer so.
Hindu-Muslim tensions were on the increase. The idea of a separate
Muslim state, a “Pakistan,” had been discussed since 1933 and by
the end of the decade presented itself as a holy crusade. At the same
time the charge was increasingly heard that the British, in encour-
aging Muslim sensitivities and fears, were using the issue to “di-
vide and conquer.”

In 1935 Great Britain passed an India Bill, adopting reforms to
go into effect two years later. Burma would acquire a separate ad-
ministration, which would place her close to dominion status. In
India the reforms would provide for an extended franchise and
transfer of various administrative powers lrorn British to Indian
hands. But the Viceroy in the central government, and the British-
appointed governors in the provinces, would retain wide powers:
independent legislative power, veto power, and emergency powers.
Under these the executive could, for example, take control in any
matter involving minority rights— which, in the eyes of the Congress
leaders, gave the British a vested interest in minority disaffection.
In the Congress the prevailing attitude was that of Jawaharlal

116

Nehru, who called the reforms “a new charter of slavery.” 1 When
the Congress decided to take part in the elections under these re-
forms, its initial purpose was to obstruct the new government.

Meanwhile left-wing influence in the Congress was growing. One
of its most-admired leaders, Subhas Chandra Bose, was among those
who unceasingly demanded more militant measures toward the win-
ning of independence. As early as 1936 the Congress, under pres-
sure both from radical factions and pacifist, gradualist factions, was
warning Great Britain that India would not again participate in an
“imperialist war.”

Great Britain meanwhile went ahead with its reforms. In 1937,
with the inauguration ol the new government, and in an ellort to
promote an atmosphere of harmony, the British allowed release of
a number ol topical films which had long been banned— some since
1930. The list was an astonishing one, suggesting the extent of
British dr Aminat ion throughout the decade to keep the passions
of independence out of the film medium. The following films were
released: 2

1. Mahatma Gandhi’s Mmdi foi Freedom (Sharcla Film Co.)

2. Mahatma Gandhi's lhstoui Maul), Alardi 12, l l) V) (Krishna Film
Co.)

3. Mahatma Gandhi's Mardi . Maidi 12, Ahmcdahad (Ran jit)

4. Mahatma Gandhi's Retina fiom London (Krishna)

5. Topical of Mahatma Gandhi and Otheis (Indian Topi' n I Co.)

6. Bombay Welcomes Mahatma Gandhi (Pi'b'moria)

7. Bombay Welcomes Mahatma Gandhi— with vernacula subtitles (Bil-
limoria)

8. The Return of Mahatma Gandhi fiom the Round Table Conference
—synchronized (Imperial)

9. The Return of Mahatma Gandhi from the Round Table Conference
(Imperial)

10. Mahatma Gandhi's Speech in Public Meeting- synchronized (Krish-
natonc)

11. Mahatma Gandhi Retains fiom the Pilgi image of Peace (Saraswati)

12. Forty-fifth Indian National Congiess at Karat hi— with Gujarati titles
(Eastern Film Co.)

13. Forty-fifth Indian National Congress at a lachi (Eastern Film Co.)

1 Quoted in Wallbank, A Shoit History , p. 17H

2 Journal of the Motion Picture Society of India. August, 1937.

117

14. Mahatma Gandhi after his Release (Naujiivam)

15. Mahatma Gandhi after the Truce— synchronized (Imperial)

16. National Flag Hoisting and Salutation Ceremony (Bombay Provincial
Congress Committee)

17. Epoch-making Voyage of Mahatma Gandhi to London (Saraswati)

Here, in capsule form, was a chronicle of the independence drive
in earlier years of the decade. The period had begun with an his-
toric gesture in which Gandhi, after a “march to the sea,” had en-
tered the surf, dipped up salt water, and, while thousands roared
approval, placed it on a fire. The gesture was a symbolic defiance of
the governmental salt monopoly and the hated salt tax. Through-
out India it had spurred resistance to tax collection and made such
resistance a sacred mission. It had led to riots and eventual impris-
onment of 60,000 Congress members, including Gandhi. 31 All this
and later symbolic acts and drastic repressions were recalled by the
release of the long uncertified films.

The easing of censorship proved only momentary. As Congress
leaders made increasingly clear their determination to boycott the
coming war, British censorship tried to maintain a blackout of the
Congress. Film producers now took to the casual introduction of
Congress symbols into films. On a wall, in the background, one
would see the Gandhian motif, the spinning wheel, signifying defi-
ance of the economic pattern of empire. In a store there would be a
calendar with Gandhi's portrait; in a home, a photograph of Nehru;
on the sound track, the effect of a passing parade, with a few bars
of a favorite Congress song. Often such symbols had no plot refer-
ence; but in theatres they elicited cheers. As war began, British cen-
sors ordered the scissoring of such shots. After 1942, when Gandhi
was again imprisoned— along with a number of other Congress lead-
ers— no photograph of Gandhi was allowed on the screen, no mat-
ter how incidentally. The Journal of the Film Industry eventually
advised the government: “Excision of photos of the Congress lead-
ers is not going to remove them from the hearts of their followers.” 4

Throughout these years of repressive censorship, Great Britain
had also made varied efforts to win Indian public opinion. In the

* YVallbank, A Short History, p. 169.

4 Journal of the Film Industry, February, 1944.

118

early 1930s it launched an Empire short-wave radio service from
London. In 1935 a British Broadcasting Corporation producer, Li-
onel Fielden, was dispatched to “upgrade" the government-operated
Indian radio system. One purpose was to broaden the potential au-
dience for the London short-wave programs beamed to India.

On September 3, 1939, after the Na/i invasion of Poland, Great
Britain declared war on Germany; on the same tlay the Viceroy of
India, Lord Linlithgow, declared India to be at war with Ger-
many. The Indian National Congress, condemning the resolution,
said that such action could only be taken by the Indian people. The
Congress expressed its abhorrence of “Fascism and Nazism and
their glorification of war" but added: “India cannot associate her-
self in a war said to he for democratic fiecdom when that very free-
dom is denied her ... a free democratic India will gladly associate

congress symbols in action: Sam Sudan (service home), 1938,

SPINNING WHEEL NUMBER. MADRAS UNITED ARTISTES AND
CHANDRAPRABIIA (TAMIL)

119

herself with other free nations for mutual defence.” 5 The Congress
continued resolutely to boycott the war effort.

Most leading film producers supported the Congress position.
But some, moved by reports of Nazi brutality and apprehensive
over the German-Japanese alliance, were beginning to have other
thoughts. When the government formed a Film Advisory Board in
1940 to make, and encourage the production o£, war-effort films,
J. B. H. Wadia, producer of stunt films and newsreels, readily ac-
cepted the chairmanship. British documentary film specialists— Al-
exander Shaw and later others— were sent from London to reenforce
the work. Theatres were at first urged, not compelled, to show these
films. But distribution results were very unsatisfactory and in 1943
the showing of war documentaries, either produced or “approved"
by the government, was made compulsory. Meanwhile the govern-
ment had also become involved in newsreel production. In 1940
it had signed with Twentieth Century-Fox a contract under which
the latter made Indian-language dubbings of the British Movietone
News. This later developed into a special newsreel keyed to Indian
interests, a government-sponsored Indian Movietone News— which
the government took over completely in 1943 and renamed Indian
News Parade.

The showing of Indian News Parade, as of the documentaries—
meanwhile renamed Information Films of India— became compulsory,
^rtieatres also had to pay for the films; the rates ranged from Rs.
2/8 per week to Rs. 30 per week. 0 The private production of
topicals now almost completely stopped. Great Britain thus put
into effect a pattern of operation that was to play an important and
controversial role in independent India.

But wartime developments in censorship, and in the compulsory
showing of government films, may have had a less momentous effect
on the film industry than other, simultaneous developments. These
were perhaps not much noticed at the time, but their effect was far-
reaching.

'Quoted in Azad, Indite Wins Freedom , pp. 26-30.

8 Journal of the Film Industry, June, 1943.

120

In black and white

The year 1940 brought to India a spurt in industrial activity.
Iron and steel production was expanding. Indian factories, in spite
of the war boycott by the National Congress, were making field guns,
machine guns, bombs, depth charges, and ammunition for British
and Allied forces in various parts of the world. Increased employ-
ment put extra money in circulation. The motion picture theatres
were crowded. A drift from rural areas to city factories augmented
the boom. Meanwhile the industrial growth also brought shortages
and, as in the First World War, a black market in essential items
such as steel, cement, cotton, foods Anticipation of rising prices had
brought speculation. When rice prices shot up, fortunes were made
by the rice speculators. Thus the bulging funds in circulation in-
cluded not only the wages of industrial workers but also various
kinds of iM'Vit profit. The new money that became available to the
film industry included black market money.

A problem for the black marketeer was that his profits could not
be openly reinvested. Therefore offers made to film stars in the early
1940s included a device that was apparently new to the film world.
The star would receive a one-film contract calling for payment of
Rs. 20,000. In actuality he would receive Rs. 50,000, but the addi-
tional Rs. 30,000 would be in cash, without any written record. To
the star this extra sum, this payment “in black,” wa c 'f course taX
free. This not only made it especially attractive but g . e it a patri-
otic tinge. For years the withholding of taxes from the British Em-
pire had been held a service to freedom. Now, when taxes were
going into an “imperialist war,” denounced and boycotted by the Na-
tional Congress, evasion of taxes was all the more easily rationalized
—if need for rationalization was ever felt. The star's delight, per-
sonal and patriotic, in a partly tax-free salary coincided neatly with
the investor’s interest in olf-the-record investment.

Not surprisingly, the “black payment” system soon spread,
though on a smaller scale, to other key r ^ures such as music direc-
tors 7 — considered, after the stars, the most important element in

7 The music director, in Indian film parlance is usually a composer-arranger
conductor. He generally works with a lyricist or "poet.”

121

box-office success. To receive part of one's salary "in black" was a
badge of distinction. The rumor that this or that star received 75
percent of his salary "in black" and only 25 percent "in white"
came to be heard frequently in trade circles, and contributed to the
star’s prestige and bargaining power.

As the industry became more and more fragmented into small
production units, which more often than not dissolved after one
production, to be replaced by others, the film industry became an
increasingly attractive investment opportunity for black marketeer
and profiteer. Just how large a role this played in the rise of the
"mushroom producers" in the early war years and after the war, no
industry or government statistics can tell us. We shall find an en-
quiry committee of independent India concerning itself in later
years with this thorny and persistent problem.

It was not only the stars and other key figures whose lives were
changed by the inflationary war period. During most of these years,
controls over scarce materials curtailed construction of theatres.
While active producers multiplied, there was no corresponding in-
crease in exhibition outlets. The exhibitor was now subsidized by
scarcity of competition. The days when an exhibitor feared he
would not have films to show were gone. Fear had shifted to the pro-
ducer: would he have an outlet? As the producer was subjected to
more and more competition and pressure, power shifted to distribu-
tor and exhibitor.

These knew what they wanted, just as the financier knew what
he wanted: big star, eight hit songs, several dances. Producers, to
clinch investments and distribution, knew that these were the
fixed essentials. They therefore found themselves bidding competi-
tively— and suicidally— for the small group of "big" stars so desig-
nated by distributors and exhibitors. As star fees shot up from Rs.
20,000 to Rs. 75,000 to Rs. 100,000 to Rs. 200,000 per film, the pro-
ducer’s own position grew more precarious. Yet the alternatives, as
many saw them, were to play the game or quit. From a prewar av-
erage of Rs. 90,009, 8 production budgets in Bombay jumped to a
postwar range of Rs. 400,000-500,000.° It was not unusual for stars

8 Journal of the Motion Pictui-e Society of India, January, 1937.

9 Journal of the Film Industry, April 1950.

122

to receive half the budget. Failure meant catastrophe for the pro-
ducer.

The producer, under increasing pressure, economized where he
could. Training programs became an extinct notion. The lesser ac-
tors and extras, set adrift to free-lame, wc’c paid at the old wages,
but only when they were needed. Writers a!*o felt the squeeze. Bev-
erley Nichols, surveying the Bombay film world in 1911, found its
stars “actually belter off*’ than Hollywood stais, since their taxes
were “a fleabite’ ; but the writer of a feature film “considers him-
self lucky to receive two hundred rupees.” He adds: “That is one
reason why Indian films are marking lime.” 10

For most people in the industry, earnings and security were skid-
ding. So were values, but during the war years the film world did not
yet think of the change in these terms. The lull effect would only be
seen later. During the war ycais there was an impression of dynamic
activity. Tiicie vac moic companies at wotk. Money was available.
Films were being made in a somewhat different business frame-
work, but many of the same dilectors, actors, and technicians were
at work on them. Many of the films had the same essential elements
as in prewar years. Surely many of them were excellent. It was only
in later years that people became aware of the changes that had
taken place.

In 1917 the Journal of the Film Industry looked back on the war
years:

With black markets and corruption abounding in the country, businessmen
began to think in terms ol eas\ moms and quick returns. . . The inflation-
ary war boom lias been the greatest encouragement for all and sundry to
enter the various branches ol the film industry in India . 11

A screen winter who had been with Piabhat and Bombay Talkies
looked back at the same years:

As the industry gained dimensions, mushroom producers came in large
numbers, and the first thing they did was to eliminate the position of the
writers. They wrote stories themseh es or adapted Hollywood fill*. . After
the Second World War, making ol original ston became taboo . 12

10 Nichols, I'etdid an India, p. IK).

11 Journal of the Film Industry, September, 1047

12 Vyas, “Writeis Were Belter Respected,” in Indian Talkie , p. 110.

123

A feminine star of New Theatres, who had played opposite Prince
Barua in many films, looked back at the same years:

The "star system" met with great success in the abnormally strained atmos-
phere of the war. It grew in si/e and in the huge deluge that it produced,
the producer, the technicians, the writer and others were washed away. 13

A producer, founder of Sagar Movietone, also looked back:

After the last great war . . . stars asked fabulous prices and on top of it,
did not agree to work exclusively. So no other course was left to us but to
close down and so we did. 14

Allocation

In the later years of the war there was still another development
that must be mentioned. Like other problems arising during the
war, this also proved to be an augury of problems to come in the
years of independence.

In 1942 the mushrooming of production resulted in a shortage of
raw film. The government temporarily eased this by putting a limit
of 11,000 feet on the length of feature films. By the following year
more drastic action was needed and a government allocation of raw
film was begun. This placed a new weapon in government hands.

We have seen that government policy favored "established pro-
ducers” and that this granted a temporary reprieve to the old, large
production units. Bu£ allocation had other aspects that especially
troubled these same producers. To receive regular allocations, the
government decided that a producer must devote at least one fea-
ture film in three to a "war-effort” theme. After two nonwar films,
he would have to submit plans for a war-effort film in order to re-
ceive a continuing supply of raw stock. Most producers and direc-
tors, as we have noted, supported the Congress non cooperation pol-
icy. Studio-owning producers therefore faced a painful dilemma.
Professional survival required some activity acceptable to the Brit-
ish as war effort.

The dilemma produced some catastrophic films. Bombay Talk-
ies, where Devika Rani was now in charge of production, secured

,a Devi, “Rise of the Star System/’ ibid., p. 135.

14 Desai, “Sagar Was Ten Years Ahead," ibid., p. 127.

124

approval of a film on nurses as a war-effort film. Titled Char Anken
(Four Eyes), it was a total failure at the box office, the first such dis-
aster for Bombay Talkies. Similarly, New Theatres produced
Dushman (Enemy), on tuberculosis. It had a better reception but
did not add to the glory or resources of New Theatres.

The astonishing military advances of Japan throughout 1942
brought some shift in opinion, which helped a few producers to
solve the war-effort problem. That year Japan took Singapore and
swept through all of Burma. Suddenly Japan stood at India’s door-
step. To some Indians the Japanese army represented a force of lib-
eration, embodying the idea of “Asia for the Asians.” Subhas Chan-
dra Bose, former Congress president, fought with the Japanese
forces, leading an Indian National Army and giving strength and
substance to Japanese propaganda. But to some Indians the Japa-
nese seemed a threat rather than a force for freedom. This created
for more tn»o. one producer a war-eflort opportunity and led to at
least one comedy of errors.

K. Subrahmanyam, founder of the Madras United Artistes Cor-
poration and a member of the National Congress, submitted pro-
posals for a war-effort film, in the Tamil language, dealing with the
imminent might of Japan. In so doing, he was condemned by some
Congress members. The film seemed to tell the Japanese— “the en-
emy"— that India did not need her and could take care of her own
affairs. Titled Manasamrakshanam (In Defense of II u> r), it was
approved and released, and became an unexpected b '^-office suc-
cess. Seeing the spirited audience reaction, authorities began to have
some uneasiness about the film. They became aware that its mes-
sage could be interpreted in more than one way. In saying, “India
can take care of herself,” it could be addressing the British as well
as the Japanese, in saying, “Go away,” it could be echoing the Con-
gress slogan of the hour, “Quit India!” In a few towns, local au-
thorities decided to uncertify the war-effort film. And Subrahman-
yam was regarded as a Congress stalwart rather than an outcas*.

At the start of the war, those who wisi d India to follow in the
path of the Soviet Union strongly opposed participation in the
“imperialist war." They urged, along with Subhas Chandra Bose
and other militants, a vigorous course of action for independence.

125

After Hitler invaded Russia, there was a sudden split among the
militants. Some, like Subhas Chandra Bose, continued to urge mili-
tant action against the British raj; others were now urging coopera-
tion in the war effort with Britain and Russia and their allies. This
realignment of forces helps to explain what was the most interesting
and successful of war-effort films, The Journey of Dr. Kotnis.

Its author and instigator was a rising young journalist of vigor
and skill, Khwaja Ahmad Abbas. In The Journey of Dr. Kotnis he
demonstrated an astute comprehension of political forces that was
to make him an increasingly prominent figure, one who often
played an international role in film.

Throughout his career he was a journalist with a foot in the film
field. After graduating from Alighar University, he got a job on the
Bombay Chronicle, and also did part-time publicity work at Bom-
bay Talkies. At the Clnonicle the aging film critic sometimes let Ab-
bas review films for him. When the critic died in 1938, Abbas in-
herited the position. He soon became one of the most unpopular
figures in the Indian film world. His pungent, lively criticisms
brought to the Chronicle threats ol an advertising boycott from film
interests. The Chronicle is said to have solved this dilemma by ele-
vating Abbas to the editorship of its Sunday edition. 15 The se-
quence of events stirred Abbas to write a film setipt, Nay a Sansnr
£The New World), about a journalist under pressure from business
tycoons— whi ch Bombay Talkies undertook to produce. Made in
Hindi, released in 1941, the film was a popular success and launched
a vogue in “new world’* films with “progressive*’ themes. It was
against the background of these rising fortunes that Abbas ap-
proached V. Shantaram, now working in Bombay as an independent
producer, with a suggestion for solving the war-effort problem.

The National Congress, while maintaining a policy of nonin-
volvement in imperialist war, had expressed its sympathy for the
Chinese by sending a medical mission to China. Nehru had spon-
sored this humanitarian project, in which seven Indian doctors had
served with the Chjijese fighting forces. One doctor had married a
Chinese nurse and eventually lost his life while on duty. Abbas had
1B Interview, Abbas.

126

turmoil. Because of continued inflation and rising costs, the real
wages of most people had declined, and millions suffered hardship.
In 1945 there was a drought in Bengal, and thousands died in fam-
ine. In 1946 there were strikes and riots in many parts of India, and
violent attacks on foreign-owned businesses. And as the partition of
India became inevitable, Hindu-Muslim bitterness also increased.

On July 4, 1947, an Indian Independence Bill was offered in the
British Parliament and speedily passed. On midnight of August 14
India and Pakistan became independent nations. Amid wild jubi-
lation, the Journal of the Film Industry in its August issue declared:

. . . two centuries of economic and political serfdom have come to an end.

. . . Under foreign yoke India’s ancient art and culture were ignored. Base
imitation of alien customs, manners and culture took the place of any or-
ganized effort to develop the indigenous art and culture. If the exit of
British rule means anything at all this has to change and change thor-
oughly. 1

The rejoicing was cut short almost at once by shocking events. The
September issue of the Journal of the Film Industry opened with
these words: “The first month of our freedom has set back the clock
of our progress/’ 2 As refugees by the millions— Hindus and Sikhs
leaving Pakistan for India, Muslims leaving India for Pakistan-
streamed through the border areas in opposite directions, there had
been murderous clashes. As terror spread, the massacres grew more
grisly. Nehru, now leader of a nation, cried out: "I: his the reafi'a-
tion of our dreams of a free India?** 3

Ceaselessly, Mohandas Gandhi pleaded and fasted for an end of
violence. He pleaded, too, that Indian leaders pledge themselves to
oppose any anti-Muslim program, and pledge also to protect with
all their power Muslim lives and property. Nehru and others took
such a pledge. Slowly, very slowly, the fury subsided, but not until
it had reached a tragic climax. On January 30, 1948, Gandhi was
shot to death by a Hindu fanatic, Nathuram Godse. "lhe body of
the frail, revered leader was cremated near Delhi; part of the ashes

1 Journal of the Film Industry, August, 1947.

* Ibid., September, 1947.

* Quoted ibid.

129

was buried there, and other parts dropped symbolically into the wa-
ters of the Ganges and on the Himalayan slopes.

Sobered by the sequence of horror, new India began to tackle its
problems as a nation. Besides the settling of 1,250,000 homeless refu-
gees, there were the problems of the integration of several hundred
princely states, disputes over Kashmir, a food crisis, the drafting
of a new constitution, and the planning of long-range development
and social reform. The new nation was 18 percent literate. Average
life expectancy among its people was twenty-six years. The range
of problems to be attacked— in agriculture, education, health, in-
dustrial growth— was staggering.

It is not surprising that both central and provincial governments
began at once to look for new sources of revenue, and that they
soon took note of the film industry. This industry seemed, at least
to the casual observer, to be in a glittering state of prosperity. Its
stars were rumored to have astonishing salaries, and a few had be-
gun to live like a new species of maharaja. The old-style maharajas
were now being “integrated.” Most were quietly relinquishing their
power and being pensioned. Even the Nizam of Hyderabad, after
armed conflict, became as other men. But a new symbol of glamor
and affluence was rapidly rising to take their place: the screen star.

Many of the leaders of the new India were studious, ascetic men.
Many were products of a rigorous education. Some had spent long
years in jail, reading ceaselessly in the history of the world, ponder-
ing the rise and fall of nations, and planning the coming trans-
formation of India. They were intent on a vast program of change.
As for the film industry, they had, like Gandhi, “the least interest
in it.” The idea of entertainment as a necessity of life was not fa-
miliar to them. If they thought of film, they thought of it as a po-
tential instrument of social reform that was not being used in that
way. They thought of it as too much involved with romance and im-
mature hero worship. They associated it with Western influences
that needed to be purged. They also saw it as a source of revenue.
Not surprisingly, the A ,year 1947 inaugurated a long series of meas-
ures affecting film that soon left the film world dazed.

Before the war most provinces had had entertainment taxes of
121/J percent. There had been wartime increases, considered tem-

m

porary. But on the heels of freedom came a wave of further in-
creases. By 1949, when the country was being divided into “states,”
the entertainment taxes ranged from 25 percent to 75 percent, with
an average of 33y 2 percent. 4 It must have been a disturbing ex-
perience for Indian exhibitors to read in June, 1949: “Britain
exempts 677 cinemas from entertainment tax .” 5 The headline re-
ferred to rural cinemas in the United Kingdom, which the British
government was trying to foster through special assistance.

In India, increased state taxes were only the beginning. Some mu-
nicipalities also began to levy entertainment taxes. 6 Others de-
veloped an ingenious new levy

for placing policemen on cinema fronts . . . as if the burden of maintain-
ing peace before the cinemas rested on the owners of the cinemas and not
on the government, as if the cinema audience did not compose of tax pay-
ers who had the right of protection wherever they were. 7

These levies were in addition to taxes already in existence. Most
municipalities were levying octroi duties on the transport of films
from one place to another. There were also sales taxes, under which
basic cinema equipment was taxed at luxury rates. Some of the taxes,
such as internal customs duties, seemed like obsolete remnants of a
previous era. 8 And of course there were income taxes— business and
personal— and import duties on raw film and production equip-
ment.

There were still other charges, not called taxes, bi* wdiich seemed
like taxation to the film industry. The British rei A .irement that
theatres must show government-approved documentaries and news-
reels had become inoperative in 1916. It had lapsed because Na-
tional Congress representatives in the central legislature had suc-
ceeded in, reducing the government film appropriation to one rupee.
The nationalist leaders, on the verge of winning independence, re-
garded Information Films of India as “a dreadful institution” w'hich
had helped to dragoon the nation into war. 9 They thus took the first
opportunity to annihilate it. But scarcely a year later, in October,

*BMPA Journal, July, 1940. n ibid., June, . 19.

• Report of the Film Enquiry Committee , p. 36. 7 IIMPA Journal, June, 1949.

8 Report of the Film Enquiry Committee , p. 3J05.

9 Mohan,' “Panorama of the Private Sector of Indian Short Film Industry/’ Marg,
June, 1960.

131

1947, they decided to revive the mechanism in almost identical
form. The states were asked by the central government to insert in
all theatre licenses the requirement that a minimum amount of
“approved” film be included in every program. During the following
months all states complied with this request. Meanwhile a govern-
mental Films Division, on the model of Information Films of India,
was launched to produce such films. It promptly presented to all
theatres a 52-week block-booking contract under which the Films
Division would supply the obligatory films, and the theatre would
pay for them. But whereas the British had charged Rs. 2/8 to Rs. 30
per week for providing this “service” to the theatre, 10 the Films
Division charge would range from Rs. 5 to Rs. 150 per week. 11

There were further increased levies. In 1950 the new government
decided to institute a Central Board of Film Censors. There would
still be censor panels in Bombay, Madras, and Calcutta, but under
centralized authority. The film industry, which had long protested
“vagaries of censorship,” welcomed the move. But shortly before
launching the new system in January, 1951, the government an-
nounced a new schedule of charges for the censorship “service.”
Under the British raj the producer had been charged Rs. 5 per thou-
sand feet to have a film reviewed by the censors; the rate would
now be Rs. 40 per thousand feet— an increase of 700 percent. 12

.There were still further new costs. A Calcutta producer sending a
Bengali film to East Pakistan, his only market outside the new In-
dia, now found that in order to get his print back he would have to
pay an import duty to his own government, far exceeding the value
of the print. 13 The exporter of a Hindi- language film to West Pak-
istan had the same problem.

By midsummer, 1949, the film associations were estimating that
60 percent of all box-office receipts were going into taxes of one
sort or another. 14

If film makers thought that censorship would be relaxed with in-
dependence, they were mistaken. The new regime was moved, at

10 Journal of the Film Industry, June, 1943.

11 Report of the Film Enquiry Committee, p. 24.

12 BMP A Journal, January, 1951.

Report of the Film Enquiry Cdmmittee, p. 121.

14 Journal of the Film Industry, July, 1949.

132

every level, by a reformist zeal. Even before the actual date of inde-
pendence, with Indian-controlled governments already at work in
the provinces, reform moves began. The provincial government of
Bombay, having decided to introduce prohibition, announced:
"• . . with effect from the 1st of April, 1947, no scenes showing
drinking of any type of liquor will be permitted in any films/’ 15 A
barrage of protests, letters, and delegations brought a clarifying or-
der: “There are films which are avowedly meant to propagate the
idea of abstinence. In such films, drinking scenes being meant to
condemn drink will not be cut out.” 16 But the film world was aghast
that the original ruling could have been issued without any con-
sultation or hearings.

The reform spirit showed itself in other ways. Another Bombay
government body, in a report on music education, took occasion to
condemn current film songs as seriously corrupted by Western influ-
ences and “alien to the genius of Indian music.” 17 The reform
spirit was further shown in ccnsoiship actions, which with increas-
ing frequency cited no existing published criteria. With impartial-
ity, censors began to reject both Indian and foreign films on grounds
improvised as needed:

Matlabi— Hindi. Jagitri Pictures. Rejected. This is a sloppy stunt picture,
not suitable for public exhibition.

Jassy— English. Eagle-Lion. Prohibited on the ground that the film hav-
ing no moral behind it is not fit for public exhibitio 'trailer is also
banned.

The Madonna's Secret— English. Republic Pictures. Prohibited as this is
a crime picture without any relieving feauire. Trailer is also banned. 18

As the new centralized board went into action, the trend contin-
ued. Increasingly the board seemed to be making aesthetic judg-
ments, as in the following directives, all dealing with the film
Vairabmantra (Vairabmantra). In each of these rulings, a sequence
was ordered to be shortened, without any specific portion being
banned. In each of these instances, the censors apparently knew
exactly how large a cut would make the ,equence acceptable.

“ Ibid., April, 1947. 18 Ibid., June, 1947.

« BMP A Journal, April, 1949.

17 Ibid., July, 1949.

Reel 7. Shorten the strangulation scene of Sanatan— 44 feet.

Reel 8. Shorten the journey of the Bhairab to fetch the heroine— 193 feet.
Reel 9. Shorten the chasing scene— 169 feet.

Reel 10. Shorten the chasing scene— 169 feet.

Reel 12. Reduce to the minimum the scene of Tantrik gloating over his
plans about the heroine— 21 feet. Shorten the fire scenes— 47 feet. 19

At the beginning of the independence period, as the new taxes
and rulings began, the industry associations took an aggrieved, pa-
tient tone. They wrote editorials to explain their grievances, dis-
patched letters and delegations to various authorities. These seldom
produced any results. That “our own government” should have so
little interest in the views of the IMPPA (Indian Motion Picture
Producers Association), BMPA (Bengal Motion Picture Associa-
tion), SIFCC (South Indian Film Chamber of Commerce), and other
units seemed to them at first difficult to believe. Before long the
tone became less patient.

On June 30, 1949, the three above-named associations joined in
an All-India Cinema Protest Day, during which virtually all cine-
mas remained closed as a protest against taxation policies. 20 The as-
sociations calculated with some satisfaction how much in taxes had
been lost by the central, state, and local governments through the
single-day protest. They said: “We may congratulate ourselves on
our unity at least.” 21 They felt they had perhaps taught the govern-
ments a needed lesson, but there is no evidence that the protest
day had a restraining effect on any government.

A few weeks later the BMPA Journal published an Independence
Day anniversary statement:

I NDF. PEN DEN C IF DAY

Two years ago today, rose the sun over free India’s horizon after a lapse of
two centuries. That glorious bright morning seemed ever so brighter to In-
dia’s multitude. They felt happier over the thought that they were free
people. High hopes of a better future in the hands of the National Govern-
ment made them feel happier still. We for ourselves, had felt so. And to-
day, two years after, we find all our hopes shattered. Our own Government
takes no notice of our grievances and all our problems remain unsolved.
We feel we are on a raft floating on a sea of uncertainties with dwindling
rations. 22

19 Ibid., April, 1951.

®° Ibid., July, 1949. Journal of the Film Industry , July, 1949.

21 BMPA Journal , July, 1949. 28 Ibid. t August, 1949.

134

I£ the film industry, or its organized leadership, was becoming
disenchanted with some of the agencies of free India, it was clear
that the latter were not growing in admiration of the film industry,
which seemed by now to consist of hundreds of ephemeral enter-
prises that felt accountable to no one and were engaged in wild and
irrational gambles contributing little to the great task of nation-
building. If there were, among these implausibly numerous units,
individuals who had done fine work and were still trying to do it,
they were more and more overwhelmed by the growing chaos. Most
of the entrepreneurs were intent on peddling diversions that
seemed, at least to the government leaders, trivial and out of tune
with the needs of the hour.

Meanwhile the government was itself embarking earnestly on the
production of documentaries and newsreels. Asked in the Lok
Sabha, the House of the People, whether the government intended
to monoj 'i/e the newsreel field, or to enlist producers from the pri-
vate sector, the Minister of Information and Broadcasting, R. R.
Diwakar, parried the question: “So far we have been producing these
films ourselves. If there are any proposals as mentioned by the mem-
ber, they will be considered on merits.” 28 Meanwhile the govern-
ment’s Standing Finance Committee stated in a report that “it is
useless to leave the production of documentaries to private pro-
ducers.” 24 The industry protested furiously.

Thus the film industry and the government b er: in a complex
feud that was to last more than a decade. In the ba aground were
issues of public versus private enterprise. In the foreground were is-
sues of clashing interests, economic survival, ana personality. We
shall pursue in later chapters several phases of this long, bitter feud.

But for a time there was a respite, a bright patch in the clouds.
Late in 1949 the government announced a new r Filin Enquiry Com-
mittee. At first the industry took a cautious view of this move. But
an enquiry committee of exceptional caliber w r as appointed. It in.-
cluded two representatives of the film industry, both among its no-
table pioneers: B. N. Sircar, founder o r New 7 Theatres Liu., and V.
Shantaram, co-founder of Prabhat Film Company. The committee

* Journal of the Film Indushy, April, 1050.
24 Ibid., May, 195Q.

135

went to work with a vigor that gradually induced, in the film indus-
try, a restrained expectancy. In its issue of December, 1949, the
BMP A Journal interrupted its long series of pained protests with
an optimistic editorial. The subject was the Film Enquiry Commit-
tee and its “earnestness and expedition." The editorial was enti-
tled “A Ray of Hope." 25

A nexu enquiry

The chairman of the committee was S. K. Patil, who had been a
member of India’s Constituent Assembly. The committee held hear-
ings in Bombay, Calcutta, Madras, New Delhi, and six other cit-
ies, and studied the 463 replies it received to the 7,140 question-
naires it had sent out. Like the Indian Cinematograph Committee
of 1927-28, the committee did its work with dispatch.

Unlike its predecessor, the committee did not publish the testi-
mony it had taken. One reason appears to have been that many wit-
nesses were willing to testify only in camera. This seems to have
had a connection, at least in a number of cases, with the problem
of “black" payments. The committee reported: “Judging . . . from
the frequent references to such items of “black" receipts and pay-
ments, it would appear that the evil is more widespread than is gen-
erally realised and deserves thorough investigation." 26 Testimony
on' black payments dealt not only with the custom of making such
payments to artists but also with off-the-record payments made to
theatres in strategic areas, to secure exhibition. 27

The committee studied the problems of exhibitor, distributor,
and producer. Not surprisingly, a major emphasis was on the pro-
gressive fragmentation of production and the effect on production
quality. The most important recommendations dealt with this prob-
lem. The committee dramatized the fragmentation in a series of
tables. The years 1946-49 were summarized as follows:

In 1946: Total

1 producer produced 7 films 7

1 producer produced 5 films 5

1 producer produced 4 films 4

5 BMPA Journal, December, 1949.

1 Report of the Film Enquiry Committee , p. 03. 27 Ibid., p. 134.

136

8 producers produced 3 films each

24

20 producers produced 2 films each

40

120 producers produced 1 film each

120

151 producers produced in all

200 films

Of the 151 producers, 94 dropped out in the following year.

In 1947:

Total

2 producers produced 7 films each

14

3 producers produced 5 films each

15

2 producers produced 4 films each

8

9 producers produced 3 films each

27

21 producers produced 2 films each

42

177 producers produced 1 film each

177

214 producers produced in all

283 films

The 214 producers included 156 newcomers. Of

the 214, 160

dropped out in the following year. Only 58 producers appeared in
both the 1946 and 1917 lists.

In ,948: Total

1 producer produced 6 films

6

6 producers produced 4 films each

24

4 producers produced 3 films each

12

22 producers produced 2 films each

44

178 producers produced 1 film each

178

21 1 producers produced in all

264 films

The 211 producers included 157 newcomers. Of

the 211, 151

dropped out in the following year. Only 51 producers opeared in

both the 1947 and 1948 lists. Only 25 producers appeared in all
three lists— 1946, 1917, 1948.

In 1949:

Total

1 producer produced 5 films

5

4 producers produced 4 films each

16

8 producers produced 3 films each

24

29 producers produced 2 films each

58

186 producers produced 1 film each

186

228 producers produced in all

289 films

The 228 producers included 168 ncwco crs. Only

60 producers

appeared in both the 1948 and 1949 lists. Only 18 producers ap-
peared m ail four lists— 1946, 1947, 1948. 1919. 28

M Ibid., appendix, pp. 323-24.

137

The newcomers appear to have consisted in part of complete out-
siders, investing in film their profits from other fields, and in part of
previous producers appearing as new corporate entities. In any
event, most of the films in each year were now offered by new units.

The committee recognized the radical changes involved in this:

Within three years of the end of the war, the leadership of the industry had
changed from established producers to a variety of successors. Leading
“stars,” exacting financiers and calculating distributors and exhibitors
forged ahead. . . . Ambitions soared high . 29

The percentage of failure was also high.

Yet such is the glamour of quick and substantial returns which a compar-
atively small number of producers can secure as a result of the success of
their productions that the industry has shown no signs of suffering from
lack of new entrepreneurs who are prepared to gamble for high stakes,
often at the cost of bo(h the taste of the public and the prosperity of the in-
dustry. In the process many of them lose their own private fortunes in a
substantial measure, make the general public pay to see pictures which not
only discredit their intelligence but also enhance their reputation for cre-
dulity and submission to make-believe, and leave the industry “unwept, un-
liQnoured and unsung .” 30

The committee noted that in most cases the producer, whether
"established” or new, launched a production without sufficient
funds to complete it. This had become customary in the years of
fragmentation and rising costs. It meant that at some time during
production the producer had to secure new finance, for which he
turned either to a distributor or a moneylender. In most cases, one
or more distributors became involved during production.

Distributors of Indian films had hardly existed in the 1920s, when
many producers dealt directly with exhibitors. But during the
sound era distribution had grown in importance and developed a
pattern. It had, like production, become fragmented— in 1948 there
were 887 distributors in India. 31 The nation was now divided into
five distribution territories or circuits. A Hindi film might have
some distribution in each of these. External markets regularly
reached by Indian-language films, such as East Africa and South
Africa, were sometirhes treated as a sixth territory. The producer of
a Hindi film often dealt with a different distributor for each terri-
tory.

39 Ibid., p. 14. "Ibid., p. 16. 81 Ibid., p. 115.

138

During production the producer generally sold off one or more
territories to raise funds to complete the picture. A territory would
generally be sold for a lump sum. In the producer's home area,
where theatre attendances could be checked, the producer would
usually try to get distribution on a percentage basis. If a producer
had faith in his film, he would make every effort to retain this ter-
ritory until after completion of the film. In many cases he would be
forced to sell even this during production.

To retain some stake in his production, he might turn to a money-
lender for a short-term loan, to tide him over the final weeks or
months of production. Loans were generally at illegal rates.

At present loans are being obtained at rales as high as 60 to 100 per cent
per annum. Interest is not paid directly at this rate, but is usually confined
to the legitimate figure of 6 per cent or 9 per cent. The lenders, however,
charge a “royalty" of not less than 10 per cent on the amount lent, and
very often t V' loan is for a short period of three or six months, the royalty
having to be paid again each time the loan is renewed. Royalty and interest
are deducted in advance, on each occasion of renewal, making the actual
rate of interest very high. The total amount paid within a year for the use
of capital thus adds up to an usuiioiis figure. 3 -

These suicidal loans were often made necessary by production de-
lays. A major reason for such delays, the committee found, was the
involvement of stars in several productions simultaneously . 33

Producers owning studios and maintaining technical staffs were
especially endangered by such delays, b M : eoulcl turn » banks for
loans, using their studios as collateral. However, production by
studio owners was declining; a number of studios had become
‘‘rental studios/’ The overwhelming majority of producers had no
tangible property, could not obtain bank loans, and depended on
distributors-or moneylenders. This had its eflect on production:

The ultimate necessity ol having to sell the picture more oi less under du-
ress affects also the qualitv of films. The producer tends to concentrate oil
the particular aspects of the picture which would appeal to the distributors
and help in securing a quick sale or a good price. 34

"ibid., p. 96.

■ 1a The Report of the Film Enquiry Committee does not cite details. At the time
of the enquiry, some stars appear to have been involved in as many as twelve pro-
ductions simultaneously; in the mid-1950s, a lew are said to have been involved
in twenty productions simultaneously.

“ Report of the Filtn Enquiry Committee , p. 97.

139

Similarly it has been brought to our notice that distributors make "sugges-
tions” in regard to the story and sometimes about the songs and tunes. Con-
sidering the financial relations between producer and distributor, such
"suggestions" are generally taken as mandatory by the producer. . . . Dis-
tributors appear to have been ultimately responsible for the temporary
success of some "stars" who managed to secure on the strength of one "hit”
a number of engagements which their merit failed to justify. They appear
to have been at least partly responsible for the establishment of certain "cy-
cles" in film-making, resulting in the production of a dozen different varia-
tions of a theme. 35

The committee recognized that it was natural that a distributor
should want to safeguard his investment and therefore suggest "what
in his view adds to the potential earning capacity of the film." 30 Yet
the committee seemed to lean to the view, expressed by some wit-
nesses, that the dominance of the distributor was “baneful,” and
this led the committee to make one of its most important recom-
mendations.

It was a recommendation made years before by the Indian Cine-
matograph Committee, and long recommended by the in-
dustry. The committee felt that a government-sponsored Film Fi-
nance Corporation should be established, with a starting capital of
Rs. 10,000,000 and the right to borrow an equivalent sum, 37 to
which producers could turn as an alternative source of capital. This
corporation, like the similar corporation established in the United
Kingdom, would presumably base its decisions on a set of values dif-
ferent from those applied by commercial distributors. The aim was
to liberate the producer from the dominance of distributor and
moneylender.

The committee felt that such a plan would have to be accompa-
nied by efforts to reduce the chaos in production— to "rational-
ize" production. It therefore proposed a Film Council of India to
"superintend and regulate" the industry. 38 The majority of the
council would be representatives of the industry but it would also
include representatives of the central government, state governments,

"Ibid.,pp. 116-17.

"Ibid., p. 117.

“Ibid., p. 103.

"Ibid., p. 187.

140

and education. As envisaged by the committee, the council would
instigate research for the benefit and long-range development of the
industry. It would have a bureau for the prior scrutiny of scripts, to
curtail unqualified “adventurers." It would have under its supervi-
sion an Institute of Film Art for the training of new talent. It would
give annual awards for outstanding work in film. It would foster
film libraries and film societies, and perform various other functions.
The Film Council of India, according to committee recommenda-
tions, would be supported by a share of state entertainment taxes,
as well as by other taxes including a cess on foreign films; fees for
services performed by the council; and nominal contributions by
film associations to be sponsored by the council.

In the course of its study, the committee had a look at taxes.
While defending a number of existing levies, it agreed with various
contentions of the industry concerning the burden of taxation. It
recomme.ivicu that entei iaimnent taxes be made uniform at a level
of 20 percent. It criticized such charges as octroi duties, police
charges, and internal customs duties.

It supported the obligatory showing of documentary films and
newsreels, and the requited payments for such films.

It recommended formation of an Export Corporation to stimulate
the export market for Indian films. Among other recommenda-
tions, the committee proposed that the government embark on a
carefully phased program of manufacture so that India ould even-
tually produce its own raw film as well as various kim of equip-
ment.

On the whole, the committee had shown a desire to bolster rather
than chastise or control the industiy. It made clear that many wit-
nesses had proposed nationalization of the film field, or portions of
it, but the committee itself opposed such plans. It wished to keep
film largely in the private sector. Paying tribute to past achieve-
ments, the committee added:

It is a pity that an industry which has grown to such proportion on its
own, without either state support or patronage .nd in the face of foreign
competition on terms which were ccrtainlv not much to its advantage,
should find itself in the present state of doldrums. It cannot be denied that

141

the pioneers of this industry established themselves in spite of the adverse
circumstances of patronage of foreign goods, of social stigma that at-
tached to the profession, of lack of high quality equipment, and of dearth
of artistic and technical talent. Nor can it be gainsaid that the contribu-
tion that these pioneers and their successors— famous names in its annals
like Prabhat, Bombay Talkies, and New Theatres— made to the building up
and growth of this industry despite these adverse circumstances was substan-
tial and praiseworthy. Unfortunately, however, the industry was overtaken
by war conditions while it was still none too firm on its feet organisation-
ally, and when the storm and the flood came, it lacked the sturdiness of
the giant oak or the strength of the embedded rock. 30

While emphasizing the impact of war economics on the industry,
the committee criticized those in the industry who tended to “ascribe
all its difficulties to external factors as opposed to those within the
competence of the industry itself to regulate and control/' 40

The committee also noted that witnesses representing the public
were freely critical of films but “unrepentant of their cinema-going
habits/’ 41 On the surface, it found the industry in a state of pros-
perity, with an annual attendance of 600 million people at its 3,250
theatres— including 850 traveling cinemas. 42

In general, the film associations reacted with delight to the com-
mittee report. They had reservations about the extensive powers to
be vested in the proposed Film Council of India. But the proposal
for a Film Finance Corporation received, as was to be expected, en-
thusiastic support. Th'e committee’s comments on taxation were
warmly applauded, and government action was hopefully awaited.

The central government met the report with a long silence. It
had other and pressing matters to attend to. A new constitution
had gone into operation. In 1951 the world’s largest electorate, 107
million voters, went to the polls in its first national election. That
same year the first five-year plan, an historic effort to lift India into
the twentieth century, was launched. The following year an im-
mense village development program was begun. As to the Report
of the Film Enquiry Committee, the government said it was study-
ing the matter. Meanwhile the states took no action on entertain-

m lbid., p. 173.

40 Ibid. t p. 6.

4l /frirf., p. 7.

4a Ibid., pp. 14-16.

142

ment taxes. A year after the submission of the report, virtually no
action had been taken on any of its recommendations.

During 1952 the industry became increasingly restive. Overpro-
duction had brought an increasing number of failures. Bengali
producers, with 40 percent of their markr* now in East Pakistan,
were having increasing difficulties. The Korean war had brought
new inflationary pressures and controls; there was no abatement
of black-market problems.

At the end of 1952 the BMPA Journal resumed its apocalyptic
tone:

Farewell 1952. The film industry in India will look back on you with re-
gret and remorse. You brought the condition of the industry from bad to
worse. The tightening grip of the country’s poverty hit us relentlessly. The
hopes raised by the report of the Film Enquiry Committee were shat-
tered in the course of your tenure. The Central Board of Film Censors as
ail expensive n«vrrniTicnt machinery fed out of the industry’s resources for-
cibly taxed, is a dog to the industry rather than an aid. The Governments
—Central and States— instead ol helping the industry are trying to help
themselves out of the dwindling resouices of our industry. . . . may 1953
look on us kindly. 43

Two months later the BMPA Journal ran a short editorial about the
report:

I* II .M ENQUIRY COM Mil EE REPORT

What has become ol that costly document? 44

The feud was resumed in earnest. A Film Federate :i of India
had been formed in 1951 to repicsent the industry in its relations
with the central government. It now put the tax issue at the top of
its agenda.

We shall later trace several phases of this feud— especially strug-
gles over censorship, “approved films,” and film music. First we shall
have a closer look at each of the main film centers during the first
postwar decade, including the first years of independence. Each had
by now acquired distinctive characteristics and problems. W" shall
take the centers in order of their product i> volume during the dec-
ade: Bombay, Madras, Calcutta.

4 ® BMPA Journal, November-Decem her, 1952.

44 Ibid ., February, 1953.

Industry

As India entered the era of independence, it stood second among the
nations in feature production. UNESCO, comparing one-year pro-
duction statistics, reported the following figures: United States, 459
features; India, 289; Japan, 156. 1

In India, Bombay was the leading center. Its lead was so com-
manding that Calcutta was no longer considered, at least in Bom-
bay, a serious rival. Madras still seemed a fumbling beginner. The
following table shows the production shares of the three regions in
the early postwar years. The figures relate to feature films: 2

Bombay area

Calcutta area

Madras area

1946

77%

12%

H%

1947

70

17

13

1948

65

20

15

1949

60

29

11

1950

60

21

19

1951

54

20

26

It was Bombay that had been affected most by the war boom and
the influx of foreigners it had brought. It was especially in Bom-
bay that adventurer producers had injected a new gambling air
into the film field. Bombay had become the Indian glamor capital. It
was in Bombay that star salaries rose most sharply. Bombay was now
almost exclusively concerned with production in Hindi, from
which the largest returns were possible.

Among the hundreds of producers active in Bombay in the post-
war years, there were some who were continuing from another era.
V. Shantaram, who had left Prabhat in 1941 to produce independ-
ently, released two features in 1946, two in 1947, one in 1948, two in
1949. He was thus in the select group of only eighteen producers

it

1 World Communications (1951), p. 26.

* Screen Year Book , 1956 , p. 474. In the table, figures for Poona and Kolhapur are
included with Bombay; for Coimbatore and Salem, with Madras. During this
period activity in the smaller centers was declining and the dominance of the
main centers increasing.

144

sociations for Indian audiences, was merely strange to most Ameri-
cans. And Shantaram’s painstaking direction, applied to material of
this sort, produced a style of acting that was mannered by Western
standards. Yet Shakuntala might, in a later day, have fared better.

A few months after Shakuntala went west the United States Su-
preme Court, in IJ.S. v. Paramount c\ ah} handed down a decision
that was to have a profound effect on the him world. As a result of
this antitrust decision, the climax of years of litigation, the major
American film companies were ordered to divest themselves of the
ownership of thousands of theatres in the United States, and to de-
sist from block-booking contracts with other such theatres. The com-
panies involved in the decision were Fox, Locw’s (including MGM),
Paramount, RKO, Warner Brothers, Columbia, United Artists,
Universal. Through ownership of key theatres and block booking,
the court found, these companies had acquired a degree of control
over the \ ^erican market that had virtually closed it to other pro-
ducers, except on terms dictated by these companies. The success
achieved by the condemned practices may be suggested by the fact
that in one year— 1943-44— the eight companies had received over
94 percent of the total United States film icntals. 0

No governmental cjuota had at any time blocked entry of for-
eign films into the United States. Yet the joint control over theatres
by the eight major companies had created an effective private bar-
rier. The art-tlicatre movement, struggling into life i:i spite of this,
was still confined to a mere handful of theatres.

During the decade after Shahuntala, the eight major companies,
no longer controlling their home market and also shaken by the rise
of television, sharply curtailed their theatrical production. Theatres,
no longer controlled by these producers, turned increasingly to
foreign films. By the end of the 1950s a thousand American thea-
tres would be regular outlets for foreign films. Westward journeys
would now find a widci market waiting.

5 334 U.S. 131 (1948).

•Conant, Antitrust in the Motion Picture Industry, pp. 44 -46.

147

A star, six songs, three dances

Meanwhile in Bombay, formula was king. The formula, as dic-
tated by exhibitor and distributor, called for one or two major stars,
at least half a dozen songs, and a few dances. The story was of de-
clining importance. It was conceived and developed toward one ob-
jective: exploitation of the idolized star. The subject matter, with
increasing concentration, was romance. An overwhelming number
of Bombay films now began with the chance acquaintance of hero
and heroine, often in unconventional manner and novel setting. In
backgrounds and characters there was strong bias toward the glam-
orous. Obstacles were usually provided by villainy or accident, not
by social problems. Dance and song provided conventionalized sub-
stitutes for love-making and emotional crisis.

All this was to some extent in the ancient Indian tradition. In
Shakuntala, too, we find the erotic balanced with decorum. Shakun-
tala also began with “boy meets girl,” with the introduction ar-
ranged in novel style by a troublesome bee. In a summary of the con-
tent of Sanskrit plays, S. C. Bhatt tells us: “The plays know love at
first sight, not arranged marriages .” 7 The obstacles, as in the for-
mula film, were provided by villainy or accident. And the humdrum
background was shunned in favor of sylvan glade or palace.

But though the pattern was traditional, critics of the Bombay film
preferred to consider it -largely a Hollywood infiltration. In an In-
dia dominated by the arranged marriage, the impulse to do this was
natural. Besides, Hollywood was working the same dramatic vein
and was thus a ready target. In addition, many producers had begun
a conscious introduction of Westernized details, for attention value.
In matters of costume, Indian censors had at times allowed some
degree of physical exposure in foreign films on the ground that cus-
toms differed. Indian producers always protested this “double stand-
ard" but meanwhile responded by introducing sequences in West-
ern-type night clubs, such as cater to foreigners in Bombay and
Calcutta. If an Indian hero was going through a period of disintegra-
tion he would no longer, in the old-fashioned manner of Devdas,
visit an Indian “dancing girl” prostitute; he would go to a night club
and watch high-kicking chorus girls while guzzling illicit whiskey.

’ Bhatt, Drama in Ancient India, p. 67.

148

young people in various parts of India were listening nightly to
Hindi film songs on Radio Ceylon. The high point of the week
became the Wednesday night Binaca Toothpaste Hour, a one-hour
program on the Hit Parade formula. Sponsored by a toothpaste
manufactured by the international Ciba company, each program
was climaxed by the dramatic announcement, preceded by trumpet
fanfares, of the leading song of the week. In many northern and
central Indian cities, that moment found clusters of people hud-
dled around coffee shops or other places with radios. At the same
time the BMP A Journal reported: “Beggars, the vociferous among
them, are become proficient imitators of film songs, and their divi-
dends largely depend on how best they are able to sing a film
song.” 9

If all went well, at least one song in a film would be a hit before
release of the film. The impact of this could be noted in the thea-
tres. At trm first strain, of the already familiar song, an approving
groan swept through the hall. In numerous instances films with hit
songs, though disastrously reviewed, were box-office triumphs.
Bombay saw no reason to change the formula.

Yet even in Bombay some producers, if only occasionally, swam
against the tide. We shall mention them briefly.

One was K. A. Abbas. It will be recalled that he had written,
partly based on his own experience, a 1941 film about a journalist
under pressure from a business nabob. The success *»f this Bombay
Talkies film, Naya Sansar (New World), had launch' . Abbas on a
series of “socially significant” films. In 1949 one of these films, Dharti
Ke ImI (Children of the Earth), became the first Indian film to be
shown in Moscow. 10 It also ran in Paris and London. Telling a story
of rural indebtedness and dispossessed peasantry, it used no profes-
sional actors. Abbas had been one of the founders of the Indian
People’s Theatre Association, dedicated to production of socially
significant plays; Dhaiti Ke Lai had begun as an IPTA play and the
film was produced under its auspices.

If Abbas scored a success with Dha * J Ke Lai, he won a critical
triumph with Munna (The Lost Child), produced by his own pro-
duction. company, Naya Sansar Productions (New World Produc-

• BMP A Journal , October, 1955.

10 Journal of the Film Industry, April, 1949.

tions)— named after his first film success. Munna , made in Hindi in
1954, was shown at the Edinburgh film festival in 1955 and at a fes-
tival of Indian films in Moscow a year later. It was singled out for
praise by Prime Minister Nehru. It was considered by the Edin-
burgh Scotsman the “worthiest film of this year's festival/' 11 while
the Manchester Guardian called it the festival's “most delightful
surprise ... it shines with gaiety and imagination." 12

The leading character of Munna was a seven-year-old boy who
escapes from an orphanage. Searching for his identity, he becomes
involved in various segments of the world— and underworld— of
Bombay.

Perhaps the most radical aspect of Munna, hardly noted by its
Western admirers, was that it was the first Hindi film ever made
without songs or dances. 13 Since the production of the first Indian
sound film in 1931, it had taken twenty-three years for a producer
to dare this experiment. Unhappily, while Munna received
glowing praise, it was “not a box-office hit" in India. 14 It thus inad-
vertently bolstered the authority of those distributors looking for
strict adherence to formula.

Even more ironic was the triumphant box-office success of an-
other Abbas-written film which did follow formula. It was written by
Abbas for a star who was rapidly becoming the most popular film
figlire in India— Raj Kapoor. Son of the distinguished actor Prithvi-
raj Kapoor, who among his hundreds of roles had played Alexander
the Great in Sikander, Raj Kapoor had started as clapper boy at
Bombay Talkies. Soon getting a chance to act, he quickly became
the idol of young India. Handsome and vigorous, he also had a
talent for easygoing comedy, and for good measure was a fine player
of the tabla, an Indian drum, a talent which was utilized in most
Raj Kapoor films. In the postwar period he began production un-
der his own banner, R. K. Films. Attracted by the proletarian themes
of Abbas, he undertook such a theme— with a more sentimentalized

u Scotsman, August 30. 1955.
u Manchester Guardian, September 2, 1955.

11 A Tamil film without songs or dances, Antha Naal (That Day), had also
appeared in 1954.

14 Holmes, Orient, p. 14, and interview, Abbas.

152

dealt primarily with the unmarried and educated young of the up-
per and middle classes, living in cities. In roughly half the films the
hero had no occupation, in almost two thirds of the films the he-
roine had no occupation. In most films the obstacles were provided
not by a social problem but by an evil character. Most films had
an evil male character, roughly half the films an evil female charac-
ter. With an average of 7.7 songs per film, in 70 percent the hero
sang, in 23.3 percent the heroine sang but did not dance, in 70 per-
cent she sang and danced. In roughly half the films the hero lived
alone; in one third he lived in a family. The heroine generally lived
with a family. Rarely did hero or heroine live in a joint family. 20

The young people whose love for each other was the main con-
cern in these films moved through a diversity of settings, exuding
vigor and radiant health and usually surrounded by consumer
goods. Among Hollywood influences, the consumer goods seemed
especially pi i.jMi'nent. Always singing at the top of their voices— via
the voices of “playback singers”— the young people went motoring,
motorcycling, speed boating, skiing, waterskiing. Always the lavish
background, radiant health, laughter. Seldom the joint family, the
arranged marriage, work, and poverty.

Critics liked to maintain that the industry had foisted such di-
version on the people, had “conditioned” them to it, so that now
they knew no better than to want it. More likely, producers were ex-
ploiting drives that were very much a reality. Perhaps President
Sukarno of Indonesia, when he addressed assembled film execu-
tives in Hollywood in 1956, threw some light on what it all meant.
He hailed these executives, to their surprise and perhaps discom-
fiture, as fellow revolutionaries, and thanked them for their aid to
the national revolutions of postwar Asia. By showing ordinary peo-
ple with refrigerators and motor cars, he said, they had “helped to
build up the sense of deprivation on man’s birthright.” Millions of
people, he suggested to them, would never again be content to lack
those things, and had acquired an irresistible determination to have
them. “That is why I say you are revolutionaries, and that is why I
salute you.” 21

20 As reported in Statesman, December 12, 1059.

21 Reported in Variety , June 6, 1956.

159

Was the formula of the Bombay film perhaps not as “escapist” as it
seemed? Was it perhaps a step in a continuing revolution? Was it
perhaps more closely related than many suspected to the five-year
plans— whose essential base was an end of apathy and acceptance?

Perhaps underneath there was this meaning, but it was hardly in
the minds of those who made and distributed films. They had found
a pattern that worked. It was maintaining lines at Indian box offices.
It was winning regulai export markets for Hindi films in Africa, the
Middle Fast, Burma, Malaya, Irulo-China, Indonesia, and the Fiji Is-
lands. 22 A few films went on into wider worlds. There was no rea-
son to change.

Ordinary, decent , super decent

In the Bombay ol the 1950s the salaries of the healthy and beau-
tiful stars kept climbing. But workers on the lower rungs knew a
different story. In 1955 the government of Bombay State 23 decided to
make an “Enquiry into the Conditions of Labour in the Cinema In-
dustry in Bombay State.” Made at the suggestion of the central gov-
ernment, the study involved interviews with 621 film workers and re-
sulted in a report issued a few months later.

The enquiry found 25 studios in operation in Bombay in 1955.
Eighteen of these were available for rent, and half of those were
used exclusively for rental purposes. Of the innumerable production
companies only one, Shantaram’s Rajkamal Kalamandir, had its
own studio and its own laboratory. Of the 25 studios, 1 1 had changed
hands at least once since the war. There were 1 1 laboratories, of
which 7 had changed hands at least once since the war.

The technical staffs maintained by studios and laboratories were,
on the whole, better off than the much more numerous workers hired
on a free-lance basis. But even in such staff categories as assistant
cameraman, dollieman, assistant carpenter, electrician, and light-
man, earnings averaged less than Rs. 100 per month. 24 Wage pay-
ments were often months in arrears. 25

" Screen Year Hook, 1956, p. 229.

88 Later divided into two states, Maharashtra and Gujarat.

84 Report on an Enquiry into the Conditions of Labour, p. 48. 26 Ibid., p. 51.

160

It was among free-lance workers that conditions were most harsh
and chaotic. The report states bluntly that since 1947 “the industry
has been disorganized and polluted” 26 and its affairs handled “by
men at the top in an unscrupulous way.” 27 Late payment and non-
payment of wages were common. The report stated:

It appears that it has become a regular feature in the Film Industry to
change the name and label of the concern in order to get rid of the claims
of the employees and, if possible, of all the creditors . 28

A union told the enquiry that during the postwar decade the film
workers of Bombay had lost more than Rs. 10,000,000 in unpaid
wages. 20

Written contracts were almost unknown. The enquiry also re-
vealed:

In a large number of cases the employers obtained the workers' signatures
for receipt of wages on blank vouchers. The date and amount is entered on
the blank vouchers according to the requirements of the producers. This is
one of the methods of adjusting “black money .” 30

The enquiry found 62.3 percent of free-lance workers to be “under-
employed.” 31 But in spite of the “unsatisfactory conditions,” it
found that

the workers hardly think of leaving the industry. . . . There are many in-
stances of “light boys” and peons becoming directors and producers. These
instances serve as a pole star to the film employees and 'hey remain at-
tached to the industry . 32

While the report threw light on various kinds of workers, it
gave particular attention to “junior artistes” or extras, and espe-
cially to women in this group. The report thus provides an interim
glimpse of the status of women in the film field. It will be recalled
that in the 1910s even prostitutes shied away from film but had grad-
ually overcome their reluctance. In the 1920s the Indian Cinemat-
ograph Committee had concerned itself with the problem of se-
curing women “of the better classes” for the film field. During this
decade the situation had been somewhat improved by an influx of
Anglo-Indian girls. These tasteless children of mixed marriage,

20 Ibid., p. 7. 27 Ibid., p. 1 1. 2H Ibid., p. 38. Ibid., p. 37.

80 Ibid., p. 39. 81 Ibid., p. 19. 82 Ibid., p. 1 1 .

161

never fully accepted by Indian or British circles, had found a wel-
come in film, and this had resulted in such silent film favorites as
Sita Devi (Renee Smith), Sulochana (Ruby Meyers), Indira Devi
(Effie Hippolet), Lalita Devi (Bonnie Bird), Madhuri (Beryl Claes-
sen), Manorama (Winnie Stewart), and Sabita Devi (Iris Gasper). 33
A number of these had dropped out in the sound era because of
language problems, but some had continued.

In the 1930s the appearance on the screen of such women as
Durga Khote and Devika Rani, both of Brahmin caste, began a
more radical transformation in the popular image of the screen ac-
tress. The change was irregular but nonetheless marked. The role
of Devika Rani was especially influential in that she was married
to a highly respected film leader, was partner in a leading produc-
tion company, and eventually became its controller of production.
In a cohesive concern like Bombay Talkies, where the management
watched over virtually all aspects of the lives of the company,
banned drinking, and concerned itself with the educational devel-
opment of the staff, the qualities of a Devika Rani could not fail to
have an impact. Here and there “respectable families” began to al-
low their daughters to interest themselves in screen careers.

Devika Rani retired from Bombay Talkies in 1945 and did not
again appear on the screen. 34 There were changes in the film field
she had not liked. The kind of company Bombay Talkies had rep-
resented disappeared in the postwar years, and Bombay Talkies it-
self died a lingering death. Its last film appeared in 1952; thereafter
its premises served as a rental studio.

During those postwar years screen stars continued to hold pres
tige. Such rising stars as Nargis and Vyjayanthimala appeared often
on platforms with statesmen. But at other levels there were changes.
The “junior artiste,” no longer a member of a cohesive company,
was now part of the floating population of “underemployed” free-
lance workers. The Report on an Enquiry into the Conditions of
Labour revealed that most hiring of “junior artistes” was, by 1955,
done through “extrak suppliers.” These agents received 10-25 per-
cent commission from the “artiste.”

83 Who Is Who in Indian Filmland , pp. 47-74.

“ In the same year she married the Russian artist Svetoslav Roerich.

162

In placing an order for extras, the producer customarily specified
one of various grades. He told the supplier he wanted an “ordinary
girl,“ a “decent girl" — this category was subdivided into classes A, B,
and C— or a “supcrdccent girl." Rates for the categories were stand-
ardized. A superdeccnt girl was one who would seem acceptable in
a high society or court setting, whereas an ordinary girl might ap-
pear in a crowd scene.

The system of ordering extras was said to lead to abuses. The re-
port stated that the extra suppliers “have little social and cultural
background,” and pictured them as rapacious:

When an order is received from the producer for a “decent A class girl," the
agent supplies that category of artiste and receives payment accordingly
from the producer, but while paying wages to the artiste he usually pays her
the wages of a “B class girl” on the plea that the producer required an
artiste of thr latter category and that he had clone her a favour by securing
her the day’s work. The difference in wages is pocketed by the .agent. The
artiste is helpless, as she has no access to the producer. 33

The w T age scale for a day’s work by a “junior artiste,” as paid by
producers, was gi\en as follows: 3 ”

Classification

Daily ll'cigr

Co minis si on ded tided

Ordinary girl

Rs. 5

10%

Decent, Class G

10

20

Decent, Class B

15

25

Decent, Class A

20

25

Supcrdccent

25-10

25

Total earnings of ordinary girls averaged Rs. 17 per month; of de-
cent class C girls, Rs. 33 per month; of decent class B girls, Rs. 54
per month; of decent class A girls, Rs. 120 per month; of superde-
cent girls, Rs. 175 per month. Those who could dance averaged Rs.
194 per month. 37

The report offered statistics on “age of entry.” Among free-lance
employees more than 10 percent started their careers at an age be-
low 14 years. Most began between 21 and 25. 38 Newcomers, said the
report, “are prepared to forego their wages for the sake of a mere

'Report on an Enquiry into llic Conditions of Labour, p. 21.
• Ibid., p. 25. " Ibid., p. 36. " Ibid., p. 21 .

163

appearance on the screen/ 1 The wages in such cases were “swal-
lowed by the agent.” 3 ®

The system of recruiting extras through middlemen, said the re-
port, “breeds immoral practices. . . . Under threat of unemployment
and starvation, the artistes cannot but succumb to the dictates of the
supplier.” 40

Unionization was found to be in a rudimentary state. No film
union had existed before 1946. A union of studio and laboratory
staff workers was formed that year, and had survived and grown.
Because the film industry was spread over an area of twenty miles,
most workers found it difficult to attend meetings. Moreover:

Several workers stated that they were unable to pay even the small sub-
scription of the union as they were not getting their wages on time. The fi-
nancial position of the majority of unions is, therefore, far from satisfac-
tory. In strange contrast to this, the workers getting fairly good salaries are
not much inclined to join the trade unions. 41

A Cine Writers Association and a Playback Singers Association had
been launched but had ceased activity because of lack of support.

In its final chapter the report estimated: “The payments to the
stars cost the producers anything from 31 to 50 percent of the entire
cost of producing the picture.” 42

The enquiry was intended to include a study of conditions in
Kolhapur and Poona, but it was found that production had virtually
ceased in those centers. The final film of the Prabhat Company, in
the Marathi language, had appeared in 1953.

Pageants for our peasants

Two phenomena marked the postwar decade in the Madras film
world. They seemed to move in opposite directions.

One was the rise of southern linguistic nationalism. It was anti-
Hindi, anti north, and extolled the glories of the ancient Dravidian
languages and culture. It made Hindi a symbol of a northern dom-
ination to be feared and averted. It became a highly emotional
force in politics. It also became strong in the southern film world

" Ibid. Ibid., p. 22. 41 Ibid., p. 73. 4a Ibid., p. 79.

164

also astrologers. A new production was generally launched on a day
and at a time set with astrological help. The industry was thus star-
dominated in more ways than one. Productions were often started
with appropriate observances, serving religion and personnel rela-
tions simultaneously. Trade papers often carried such items as:
“The camera was switched on at 10:09 a.m. by the star’s mother.”

By 1955 star salaries, in the bidding against Bombay, were ru-
mored to have reached Rs. 400,000 per film, in white and “black.”
Meanwhile in southern theatres a chief projectionist received a basic
salary of Rs. 100-130 per month in the bigger theatres, Rs. 80-100
in the lesser theatres, plus cost-of-living increments. A chief ticket
taker received exactly half as much. These scales had been set in a
labor arbitration in 1947, and remained in effect. 51 Studio and lab-
oratory employees lived on a comparable scale. As in Bombay, most
free-lance film workers existed at mote precarious levels.

“O divine Tamil ”

While the south was pushing into northern markets, it was also the
setting of a highly dedicated movement which was at first not taken
seriously by state or national leaders, but which was destined to play
a role of increasing importance. This was the Dravidian movement.
The emotions involved were complex and had deep roots.

In southern India, alongside the national independence cam-
paign, there had been for some decades another drive— the anti-
Brahmin movement. The Brahmins, heading the Indian caste struc-
ture, were identified in the southern mind with the Aryans who,
long before the Christian era, had started pushing down from
the north and had imposed their rule on the older Dravidian civ-
ilization. Hindu culture had emerged from the synthesis of these
two civili/ations. In the oversimplified view favored by many non-
Brahmins, the Brahmin caste was a final precipitate of the conquer-
ing Aryans, while the lower castes represented the old Dravidian
order. This view gave the non-Brahmin castes a sense of solidarity in
relation to the Brahmins.

“ In the Court of the Industrial Tribunal, pp. 54-60. These pay scales remained
unchanged until 1961.

169

During much of the British era, government positions and special
privileges went almost exclusively to Brahmins. In a sense, the early
policy of the British was to accept and adopt the caste structure, rul-
ing through its top layer. It was not until the 1930s that the Brahmin
supremacy began to be weakened by the non-Brahmin alliance.

The Brahmins had always fostered the study of Sanskrit, the
Aryan linguistic heritage. Brahmins in Madras tended to look down
on vernacular Tamil and to embellish their own Tamil with words
coined from Sanskrit. In response, it became a matter of sacred
duty among non-Brahmins to purge their speech of all Sanskrit
taint. The anti-Sanskrit purge reached the height of its fervor around
1930.

During the 1930s, in anticipation of independence, there began a
drive by many leaders of the National Congress to build Hindi-
based on Sanskrit— as a future national language. It gathered wide
support in the north but growing resistance in the south. The Dra-
vidians looked on the imposition of any strange tongue as a badge
of servitude. They had felt this way about the Sanskrit of the Aryan
and the English of the British raj; they felt the same way about the
Hindi of the north.

Under the new constitution promulgated by the British in 1935,
the Brahmin scholar C. Rajagopalachari became chief minister of
Madras in 1938. He was a brilliant, sharp-witted writer and speaker,
a Sanskrit pundit, a friend of Gandhi and Nehru, a respected leader
of the National Congress. He was also a man of strongly held convic-
tions. One of his first acts was to decree compulsory study of Hindi
in the schools of the province of Madras.

The move caused such a tumult, such firm resistance, that it was
abandoned in two years. But after independence the need for a na-
tional language was again widely discussed. It seemed unthinkable
that affairs of national departments, legislatures, and courts should
continue to be conducted in English, a language understood by only
a thin stratum of Indian society, and identified with colonial rule.
In the view of many leaders, Hindi based on Sanskrit was the only
conceivable choice. All India Radio began to feature a Sanskritized
Hindi. The Constitution of 1950 specifically designated Hindi as
the national medium, but the time of its official inauguration was

170

postponed. Meanwhile, there would be time for education and evalu-
ation of progess made. Most states adopted the study of Hindi, but
the south had its own formula. In Madras State a child had to study
Tamil — and one olhcr Indian language. This resulted in many
children studying Hindi, but the accepted interpretation was that
though one might have to study Hindi, there was no need to pass an
examination.

Every move toward the imposition of Hindi seemed to stiffen
southern resistance. The issue provided the emotional base for
various new associations and parties. One of these, the Dravida
Munnetra Kazhagam or D.M.K.— the Dravidian Forward Move-
ment— was formed in 19-19. Its fourulei was a dramatist and some-
time actor, C. N. Annadurai, who held a master’s degree from the
University of Madras and quickly won fame for the vivid imagery
of his speech and his flair for impromptu alliteration in “chaste
Tamil.” Annadurai was, at about this time, becoming involved in
film, and before long various film stars and writers rallied to the
D.M.K.

In the early 1950s they began the casual introduction into films
of symbols of their movement. References to the colors black and
red, adopted as party colors, became frequent. The word anna, big
brother— popular name for Annadurai, the party leader— was often
used. Later the motif of a rising sun, adopted as party emblem,
began to appear. Any suc h symbol would evoke wild applause in the
theatre.

All this quickly developed into a popular game between audience
and producer. It led to such dialogue as:

Man 1: The night is daik.

Man 2: Don’t worry! The rising sun will soon bring light and good for-
tune'.

(Audience: wild (hens and applause)

Or:

He: Believe me, sister!

She: I do, Anna, I do! The whole land believes in you, and will fol-
low you.

(Audience: wild cheers and applause)

171

In the casual selection of a sari:

She: I always like a black sari with a red border.

( Audience : wild cheers and applause)

Two people lost in a forest:

Man 1: Should we turn north?

Man 2: No, never! South is much better.

(Audience: wild cheers and applause)

This was, of course, the very technique used by the Congress in ear-
lier years. Again it proved its effectiveness. So noisy was the ap-
proval that greeted these casual Dravidian injections that producers
unconnected with the movement began to use the symbols. They too
wanted the applause. Actors found it prudent to associate themselves
w T ith the movement.

All these symbols, like the Congress symbols, appeared in stories
that had no specific relation to the movement. Yet as a result of the
symbols, the stories occasionally seemed to take on new meanings.
In the mid-1950s M. G. Ramachandran, one of the two most pop-
ular of south Indian stars, began to specialize in stunt roles in the
Douglas Fairbanks tradition. He appeared as folk-licro, battling
royal usurpers and their henchmen, fighting against incredible odds.
Many critics considered the stories purely “escapist." Ramachan-
dran expressed the opinion that they were not escapist. To his pub-
lic— so Ramachandran explained— the long-entrenched Congress
leadership in New' Delhi had become a species of royalty, and the
folk-hero symbolized the southern Dravidian, struggling against
odds to establish justice.

One such lolk-hero film, Nadodi Mannmi (The Vagabond King),
was vaguely set in an earlier era. Its opening song began: ‘‘O divine
Tamil, we bow to you, who reflect the glories of ancient Dravid-
ians." r,1!

Throughout this period, film actors and writers played a role in
party rallies. These rallies were usually advertised as occasions for
meeting stars. One of the stars who appeared in such rallies, though
not otherwise identified with the movement, w r as N. S. Krishnan.

62 From the film Nadodi Mannan , produced by Fmgeeyar Pictures.

172

said, had at least opened the door to new worlds of knowledge and
ideas. Hindi, the Esperanto of the north, would open no such doors.

In the independence era, C. Rajagopalachari returned to state
office. Representing the Congress party, he was chief minister of
Madras State from 1952 to 1955. During these years it was clear that
the D.M.K. was building strength, but most government leaders re-
garded it with amusement. Rajagopalachari hardly noticed it. K. Ka-
maraj, who succeeded him as chief minister in 1955, again represent-
ing the Congress, was openly scornful. He was quoted as asking:
“How can there be government by actors?*’ For “actors” he used
the most contemptuous term available— koothadi, or mountebank.
The contempt rallied the screen world to the D.M.K. The party
thrived on the ridicule heaped on it.

The time would come only a few years later when this absurdity,
this fan club in politics, this troupe of mountebanks, would set the
National Congress rocking on its heels, win a majority in the Madras
city council, elect fifty members to the state legislative council, and
send Annadurai, big brother, north to New Delhi, to the Rajya
Sabha— upper house of the parliament— to speak his defiance in the
very fortress of the enemy. And by that time C. Rajagopalachari, at
odds with the Congress and now founder of a new conservative
party, Swatantra, would actually have a working alliance with the
party of mountebanks.

But all this was inconceivable in the early 1950s, when the D.M.K.
was just beginning its career of booking stars for quasi* political ral-
lies of movie fans. At that time the D.M.K. was largely an oddity.
The big film story then was the rise of Gemini Studios and A.V.M.
Productions in the Hindi market. Both were building national dis-
tribution organizations, the only Indian producers so organized, and
were beginning to have a look of national stature.

S. S. Vasan of Gemini, at the crest of his triumphs with Chandra -
lekha and later pictures, was rapidly becoming an acknowledged
leader of the all-India film industry. A constant traveler, he cru-
saded with characteristic vigor against the heavy taxes imposed on
the film industry. In 1953 he arranged a large meeting of film celeb-
rities in Madras. To this he invited C. Rajagopalachari, the chief
minister of the state.

175

C. Rajagopalachari had long been outspoken in his dislike for
films. He often advised people to avoid them. He felt the Indian
industry was imitating the producers of “the smutty west,” who, in
his opinion, “create sin.“ He felt that the view of life constantly
shown on the screen was adding to “man's quantum of sex urge,”
and that this was precisely what India did not need. 56 But he ac-
cepted the invitation from Vasan.

As he sat quietly on the platform, speeches began. One was by
Vasan. He said that some people always spoke of the film industry
as some sort of educational institution. It was nothing of the sort, lie
suggested. A film, to meet its cost, had to please 10 million people.
If films were made to please social reformers, they would not even
reach 15,000 people. The real function of film, said Vasan, was to en-
tertain, and to that end the producer should dedicate himself. Next
he spoke of taxes. lie mentioned Chandralekha and its domestic
gross of Rs. 10,000,000, at least half of which had gone into taxes.
He gave an estimate of what the film industry as a whole was con-
tributing to central, state, and local exchequers. He insisted it was
an excessive burden and that parts of the film world were being bled
to death. He suggested the governments should mend their ways.
Otherwise, he proposed, it would be a sound idea for the film in-
dustry to stop production for a while and halt the ample flow of
tax revenue.

C. Rajagopalachari was invited to comment if he wished to. He
did wish to. He welcomed the fact that Mr. Vasan had disclaimed
an educational role. Education, he agreed, required qualified peo-
ple. As to taxes, he reminded Mr. Vasan that he, Rajagopalachari,
had campaigned for prohibition, and had thus worked to put an
end to another corrupting influence, even though it had brought
in more taxes than the film industry. He urged Mr. Vasan not to
pursue this argument. However, Mr. Vasan had suggested that the
film industry should voluntarily stop producing. If the industry it-
self should actually devote its attention to “reducing this poison,”
and terminate itself,^ that would be something unique, and an ex-
traordinary service. If it should end entirely, he would not be sorry,

“ Indian Express, August 6, 1953.

176

the minister said. He assured Mr. Vasan of his support. 57 The In-
dian Express reported further: “The function concluded with a
dance performance by Vyjayanthimala.” 58

A 40 percent loss

While Bombay was holding its lead as the major film center and
while Madras, spurred by linguistic nationalism, was consolidating
its strength in the south and invading northern Hindi markets, the
film world of Calcutta was in the doldrums.

No other production center had been so injured by partition. Of
the Bengal i-language market that had been its domain, 40 percent
had become part of East Pakistan. Part of the Hindi-language
market had also become foreign territory, in West Pakistan, but this
was a minor loss to Hindi produccis compared to the truncation suf-
fered by Bei.r producers.

The failure of India and Pakistan to agree on an exchange rate
for their respective rupees soon proved costly to Calcutta producers.
Pakistan decreed its own exchange rates, with the result that film
rental remissions fell sharply. There were also reports of Pakistan
levying a special “penalty" on Indian films, although the nature of
this penally was not clear and reports were contradictory. 59 Mean-
while the Indian government added to the problems of film ex-
porters by its “reimport" policies. When prints came back from East
Pakistan, the only Bengali-1 a nguage market outside Indist, they were
treated by India as new imports of “exposed film" and an import
duty was levied. This duty had been designed originally as a way of
deriving revenue from importers of foreign films. Now this import
duty, exceeding the laboratory value of the print, fell heavily on
the Calcutta film world. The economics of export to this limited
area became forbidding. At the same time the small Pakistan film
industry was beginning to ask for protection from Indian competi-
tion, and eventual moves in this direction were considered certain.

67 Account based on Hindu, August 6, 1953; Indian Express, August 6, 1953; and
interviews with film makers.

M Indian Express, August 6, 1953.

“ Report of the Film Enquiry Committee , pp. 120-21.

177

All these problems were accompanied by increases in production
costs and the sharp rise in taxes. Throughout the postwar decade
this combination of blows cast gloom over the Calcutta film world.
Editorials in the BMPA Journal sounded, month after month, like
speeches of a doomed film hero.

GATHERING CLOUDS

The depression is already here. Clouds are gathering in the sky over Ben-
gal’s film-land. They arc dark and laden with ruinous rains. All in the film-
land should congregate, to confer, how best to ward off the coming calam-
ity. The strong should now help the weak to get a foothold and the weak
thus helped, should remember to reciprocate when today’s strong become
weak later. 00

Ironically there was, throughout this period, a surface prosperity
for Bengali films. As elsewhere in India, lines waited at low-price
windows; tickets for hits disappeared into the black market. This
was partly because the central government, after 1948, had called a
virtual halt to cinema building, to save raw materials. For years the
growth of exhibition facilities had lagged behind the growth of pro-
duction. A shrinking market now supported a bulging industry.

In 1951 M. D. Ghatrerjee, president of the Bengal Motion Pic-
ture Association, referring to the “queues in front of the theatres,”
said emphatically:

•This profile of prosperity is a deceptive facade. ... Of the forty-three films
in the Bengali language' released in 1950 hardly a dozen will cover their
cost and bring some return to the producers. . . . near-paralysis has afflicted
the production industry in Bengal. 01

For the year 1950, he estimated the loss on unsuccessful pictures at
Rs. 2,500,000. lie estimated an additional loss of Rs. 3,500,000 on
pictures abandoned in the midst of production.

Not surprisingly, the years brought a steady drift from Calcutta
to other centers, especially Bombay. Bimal Roy, Nitin Bose, Kidar
Sharma, and others joined the Bombay migration. Barua, who had
resisted the call of that “bazaar,” died in 1951.

Since the beginctfng of the talking film era, Calcutta had not only
supplied the needs of the Bengali-language market; it had also

00 BMPA Journal, May, 1949.

61 Ibid., June, 1951.

178

taken a large share of the revenue from Hindi markets. It had ob-
tained this share easily. It had simply produced films to its own
taste, making Hindi versions along with Bengali versions, and
watched the revenue come in. The profits from the Barua Devdas
had come from many parts of India.

But in the postwar years Calcutta double versions ran into trou-
ble. Between 1948 and 1955 New Theatres produced a number of
double versions that succeeded in Bengali, but not in their Hindi
versions. The Hindi titles were Anjangarh (Anjangarh), 1948;
Manzoor (Let It Be), 1949; Naya Safar (New Venture), 1952; Bakul
(Bakul), 1955. 02 Other producers were having similar experiences.
For New Theatres, the setbacks virtually marked the end of the
road.

Some said all this had happened because New Theatres, along
with other Calcutta companies, had lost many talented men to
Bombay. Others ascribed it to a change of tastes in the Hindi mar-
ket. 63 Gemini Studios of Madras, with drum dances and thunder-
ing elephants, had caught the national fancy and brought forth a
rash ol epics. The quieter offerings of Calcutta were falling by the
wayside.

To some it seemed that Calcutta would have to adjust itself to the
new era and learn to pioducc “pageants for our peasants." Perhaps,
like Madras, it would have to outbid Bombay for its stars, gam-
bling for the highest stakes. Some moved in this direction, with
minimal success. Calcutta simply did not ha\c the Chandra left ha
touch. But it turned out there w r as another possible direction. Cal-
cutta had always been a city of international awareness. It was the
city of Tagore, citi/en of the world. And while some in Calcutta film
circles saw as their only hope the Hindi-language markets of India,
there w r ei'c others who began to think in wider terms.

To describe the genesis ol this thinking we must turn aside for
a moment from the commercial film world of Calcutta to some-
thing that had struggled into precarious life at the moment of inde-
pendence. It seemed for years to have no chance of surviving, yet
something kept it stirring. It is important to our story not for what

“Interview, Pranianick.

68 Interview, Sircar.

179

it was-a film society-but for the role it played in the education of
several people.

Film society

The Calcutta Film Society was founded in 1917, the year of in-
dependence, by Chidananda Das Gupta and Satyajit Ray. Both
were advertising men. Both worked in the Calcutta bra nth of the
London advertising agency D. J. Kcymer. Both were hungry to sec
and study films other than those appearing in Calcutta theatres, and
the Calcutta Film Society was founded for this purpose. It was not
the first such socicty-a Bombay Film Society had been formed in
1942.

In India film societies worked from the start under crushing diffi-
culties. In the United Kingdom the law exempted nonprofit mem-
bership film societies from censorship regulations. In the United
States the few states that have censorship systems have likewise ex-
empted nonprofit membership organizations. Without these exemp-
tions the National Film Theatre in the United Kingdom, Cinema
16 and the Museum of Modern An film showings in the United
States— not to mention film societies on many university campuses—

• could hardly have been born and survived.

The Indian Cinematograph Act of 1918 and later amendments
offered no such exemptions. Independent India retained the rigid
restrictions of colonial India. No film society, university, school, mu-
seum, club, or business concern could show a film without submit-
ting it for censorship. 01 The procedures were the same as for com-
mercial theatre showings. After January, 1951, they included a fee
of Rs. 40 per reel for films over 2,000 feet. A complete script, a syn-
opsis in eight copies, and texts of songs in eight copies were needed.

“For a meeting of the Indian Academy of Sciences in Poona in 1010, a scientific
film shot in the Aid it was flown to India. Held up for consulship, it leached the
Academy meeting just in time for the scheduled screening. When the slide show-
ing the censofs approval appeared on l lie screen, “l)r. Raman led the chorus of
satiric approbation by lusty dapping of hands." Journal of the Film Indus-
try, January, 1950. I o dale (I96.S) the law has not been (hanged.

ISO

For many of the experimental films shown at British and American
film societies, no such material exists.

At the time of independence, Indian law exempted from censor-
ship one kind of projection: a showing on diplomatic premises. This
was to play an important role in the story of Indian film societies.
In June, 1952, a second exemption was a ided. The rules now au-
thorized a producer, without prior censorship, to project footage
from his own unfinished film. Government representatives had to
be admitted to any such sci ceiling at any time. 05 The new exemp-
tion did not help film societies.

Besides being subject to censorship, film societies had to pay en-
tertainment taxes. This was another requirement from which Brit-
ish and American film societies have been exempt. Entertainment
taxes continued to be levied on the Calcutta Film Society until
1960, when offic ials recognized it as an educational organization. But
a new exemption application had to be made for each showing. 00

Still anoiMCi hurdle lacing Indian film societies has been import
duties. Foreign producers were sometimes willing to sell prints at
low cost for nonprofit use in India, but the government took the po-
sition that import duty had to be paid. It long resisted the notion
of c lassif)ing any feature films as educational material.

In spite of all these difficulties the Calcutta Film Society began in
1947 to hold regular showings of films of special interest as works of
art. Membership rose steadily.

The society found it had, essentially, three sources of material.
The first was the Central Film Library of the Ministiv of Education.
Formed as a service to schools, it had bought a few film classics such
as Nan oak of the North. But the emphasis in its purchases was on
classroom teaching films. The Calcutta Film Society found it could
obtain from the Central Film Library approximately twenty-five
programs of film society interest. After that it had to rely on other
sources.

A second source was the commercial distributor. Some had films,
already censored but not widely distributed, available for rent to a

“ Journal of the Film Industry , July, 1952.

66 Interview, C. Das Gupta.

181

film society. Unexpected treasures were found, such as the French
Un Carnet, de Dal , rented from an American distributor under the
title Life Dances On. However, in the early 1950s the period of cen-
sorship licenses was changed from ten years to five years. 07 Hun-
dreds of old films became automatically uncertified— and had to be
recensored, with payment of fees, even to be previewed by a film
society executive. The change led many commercial distributors to
destroy prints of old films to save storage costs. Thus it had the eflect
of curtailing this source of supply.

A third source consisted of foreign embassies. As other sources
dried, this became all the more important, especially because an
embassy sometimes invited the society to its premises to see a film,
averting costs and red tape of censorship. Film societies became es-
pecially dependent on embassies representing countries with na-
tionalized film industries. The USSR could make available such
films as Alexander Nevsky and hum the Tnrible, whereas the U.S.
Information Service could offer no feature films but only documen-
taries on such topics as the New York Public Library or Concord,
Massachusetts.

From these various sources the Calcutta Film Society, during the
years 1947-52, showed films from the United States, the United
Kingdom, the USSR, France, Germany, Italy, Poland, Hungary,
Czechoslovakia, Canada, Japan, and India itself. And it provided
other valuable experience.

An early member of the Calcutta Film Society was Hari Das
Gupta, a student at the University of Southern California in 1916-
47. There he had met the French director Jean Renoir, who had
come as a visiting lecturer. When Renoir later came to Calcutta to
make The River, he turned to Hari Das Gupta for help, and even-
tually made him his assistant. Renoir spent months selecting loca-
tions. Sometimes Das Gupta, on these location-hunting jaunts, got
Satyajit Ray to join them. Ray would take a long lunch period from
the advertising agency, where he had become art director. He could
talk endlessly— and beautifully— about Bengal and its people, and
Renoir listened. TLiy and Das Gupta learned from Renoir too.
They were sometimes surprised at the familiar things that interested
n7 JiMPA Jourtwtlf Fclimary, 1953.

182

Renoir and roused his enthusiasm and loving attention. Hari Das
Gupta recalls, “We started seeing through his eyes.” 08

Renoir visited and talked to the members of the Calcutta Film
Society. And there were others. When Pudovkin and Cherkasov vis-
ited India in 1951, they too met with the film devotees of the society.
Later came John Huston and others.

From 1952 until 1956 the Calcutta Film Society suspended its ac-
tivities. During that time its members talked unceasingly about
reviving it, but the problems seemed formidable. In 1955 they
learned, from the magazine Indian Documentary, that Bombay was
having similar troubles:

The Bombay Film Society has been unable to present its regular monthly
showing to members for the past two months, due to obstacles and delays
put before it by the Home Department of the Bombay government. Difficul-
ties of exhibition and censorship are one thing; equally discouraging is the
difficulty of importing into India, in the first instance, films destined
for nom exhibition to small groups scattered throughout the

country. These various problems require study and sorting out by some
central body of determined and enthusiastic people, before any real prog-
ress in the film society movement can be expected . 00

The Bombay society did not meet again for two years. Thus by 1955
both pioneer societies had come to a halt.

The Calcutta Film Society had meanwhile played a vital role in
the lives of several people. Satyajit Ray was in production. So was
Hari Das Gupta. They would be followed soon by Chidananda Das
Gupta and others. But a chronicle of the troubles of the film socie-
ties raises a question. What did independent India gain by the ob-
stacles it put in their path? Did India not gain more from the des-
perate efforts of the societies to continue, in spite of massive official
discouragements?

aH Interview, H. Das Gupta.

00 Indian Documentary, J uly-Scptcmbcr, 7955 .

183

Feud

We have briefly portrayed the three major film centers— Bombay,
Madras, Calcutta— during the first postwar decade. Each had its own
problems and was developing its own characteristics. But in some re-
spects they were alike. During these years they shared a continuing
feud with the government. Several aspects of this struggle need to
be examined. One was the dispute over “approved" films. On both
sides, this generated heat.

When independent India reintroduced the compulsory showing
of “approved” films, various industry spokesmen denounced the ac-
tion on principle. They said the central government had been “ill-
advised by those trained under British bureaucracy,” 1 2 and argued
that exhibitors would be willing to show documentary films and
newsreels voluntarily. The record hardly supported them. After
the termination of the Indian Nexus Parade in 1946, a private In-
dian company had purchased its assets and tried to carry on the
service. The effort had survived only a few months because exhibi-
tors were uninterested.*

The industry spokesmen had apparently forgotten, or were un-
aware, that as early* as 1937 the Motion Picture Society of India
had itself urged the government to require exhibitors to show a
minimum quota of educational film in each program, in the inter-
est of “national culture.” 3 At that time producers clearly felt that
some exercise of authority would be needed to create a market for
what was considered essential, but had become unmarketable.

While continuing to object to compulsory showings, 4 industry

1 Journal of the Film Industry , February, 1950.

2 Report of the Film Enquiry Committee, p. 51.

a Journal of the Motion Picture Society of India , January, 1937.

4 There was some li|igatinn on the subject. In Madras State the requirement, as
incorporated in theatre licenses in 1948, made it obligatory to show “not less
than 2,000 feet of one or more approved films.” In 1954 the Madras State Court,
in Se.shadri v. District Magistrate, Tanjore , voided this on the ground that gov-

184

spokesmen also protested compulsory payments, as well as the scale
of the payments. Exhibitors even argued that since the government
paid newspapers for advertising space, it should pay theatres for
documentary screentime, rather than requite payments from them.
The argument did not betray a high esteem for documentaries.

In 1951 the Film Enquiry Committee briefly considered the is-
sue, and approved both the compulsion and the required payments.
Meanwhile the Ministry of Information and Broadcasting took up
the issue at various times in more detail.

Dr. B. V. Kcskar, who became Minister of Information and
Broadcasting in 1952, argued with some cogency that the required
payments were a safeguard to the industry itself— necessary to pro-
tect the market for private producers. In December, 1954, he enlarged
on this point in the Lok Sabha, the House of the People:

The ultimate aim ... is the development of the production of documen-
taries and newsreels by the Indian film industry. It has been acknowledged
all over the world that documentaries, newsreels, and educational films
must supplement the normal fare of entertainment given in the cinema
houses and all the advanced countries have an established section of the
film industry which produces films of this kind. . . . The only effective
method of developing a documentary section in the film industry in India
is to assure them a steady market, as no producer would otherwise be pre-
pared to undertake the production of this kind of films which arc essential
to the community/*

Required showings with adequate payment, the minister said, were
needed to create a market for documentary producers. If govern-
ment began donating films of this sort to theatres, theatres would
never again be willing to pay for them. The system of payments
therefore protected the industry.

That its policies were designed to foster documentary film pro-
duction in the private sector was a favorite theme of the ministry
throughout these years. No other principle was so frequently reit-

ernment, in the absence of a stated maximum, would be able to preempt all
theatre screen lime. The state then rewrote the clause to require the showing of
not more than 2,000 feet of approved film; othei states followed this example. The
requirement has remained in effect in this fonn.

6 Lok Sabha Debates , Dcccmbci 9, 1954.

185

erated. And yet there is no doubt that some of the actions of the
ministry were at the same time having aif'exactly opposite effect.

When the obligation to show approved films had been reintro-
duced and the Films Division 1 * of the Ministry of Information and
Broadcasting established, it sent representatives to cinemas through-
out the country with a contract— ready for the signature of the ex-
hibitor. It was a block-booking and blind-booking contract, under
which the Films Division undertook to provide all the approved
films the theatre would need to fulfill its legal obligations for the
year, and the theatre committed itself to show them and to pay for
them. Every cinema in the country felt it had no choice but to sign
the “contracts which are described as agreements," but which were
“thrust by one party on the other.”®

It was certainly true that the government had created a market
for documentary films and newsreels by making the showing of such
material mandatory and requiring payments for it. It was also true
that the government had, a moment later, completely preempted
that market for its own products. Ministry spokesmen, in defense
of their action, said that theatres were free to purchase additional
documentaries from the private sector, but their faith in such vol-
untary action was hardly more convincing than the industry's own.

The ministry, in implementing the law, had in effect gone far
beyond the law. In theory a theatre had to show an approved film
either from the private sector or the public sector. The government
had in 1949 set up a Film Advisory Board to review films and ap-
prove those that served a public purpose, whether produced by the
Films Division or by others. In actuality the ministry, through its
block-booking contract, had rewritten the obligation imposed on
theatres. In every program, every theatre in India was now obligated
by contract not merely to show an approved film but to show an ap-
proved film from the Films Division.

The gist of the situation was that a privately produced documen-
tary, though approved by the Film Advisory Board, was unmar-
ketable unless the Films Division itself chose to buy it, at its price,
for its distribution. An independent documentary producer might

a BMPA Journal, June, 1949.

186

conceivably survive as a supplier to the Films Division, but he was
prevented from being its “Competitor. Because of the contract, a
theatre would never be in a position to make a choice between an
approved film from the public sector ^and an approved film from the
private sector.

In answer to charges of monopolistic practices, Dr. Keskar, the
Minister of Information and Broadcasting, offered in 1954 to ne-
gotiate a formula by which the preempted screentime would be di-
vided with the private sector. 7 S. S. Vasan, as president of the Film
Federation of India, rejected the idea of any such negotiations, so it
is not clear what sort of arrangement the minister had in mind. The
block-booking contract continued undisturbed.

The elimination or prevention of competition through block
booking is a practice which India hacl known something about for
decades. India was aware of the role it had played in consolidating
the international position of the American producers after the
First \voriti War. It was aware of the role it had played in furthering
their control over the American market. It is ironic that in the very
year when block booking was outlawed in the United States by its
Supreme Court, as the climax of an antimonopoly prosecution, in-
dependent India moved to create a closed production-distribution
system through the same technique, but in a more thorough man-
ner. Not a cinema in India remained outside the controlled market.

It should be emphasized that this controlled market in theatrical
documentaries and newsreels was brought about . r )t by the ap-
proved film plan, which envisaged competition, bu. by a contract
for which there was no provision in the law. It was administration,
not legislation, that created the monopoly.

Throughout this period the Ministry of Information and Broad-
casting insisted that it was fostering the independent production of
documentaries, and it apparently believed it was doing so. Not only
did its Films Division occasionally buy a completed film on a lump-
sum basis. It also had a policy of commissioning a few films each
year to outside producers. Up to the end of 1954 six films had been
commissioned in this way. 8 The praci e would be expanded, the

1 Ibid., November, 1954.

* Lok Sabha Debates, December 9, 1954.

187

ministry said. Each year the Films Division published a list of about
two do/en approved independent producers who would be invited
to submit competitive bids on film topics designated for outside pro-
duction.

But the rates which the Films Division was willing to pay for the
outside productions were a constant issue. This had erupted into
public debate as early as 1950. By that year, according to industry es-
timates, the Filins Division itself was spending Rs. 27 per foot in the
production of start-produced films. Yet it considered Rs. 12 per foot
a proper price for private producers, except under extraordinary
circumstances. 0 The negotiations on this subject were described as
follows by the BMPA Journal:

The Ministry was originally prepared to pay only Rs. 8 to Rs. 15 per foot
according to the quality of the documentary and even then for all the rights
involved, viz., theatrical, non theatrical, classroom, television, etc., whether
in India or abroad. Alter prolonged discussions the Ministry offered a fixed
payment of Rs. 12,000 per documentary, and the documentary producers ac-
cepted it as a minimum payable against delivery of the negative of a film,
.plus the residue from the exploitation of the film in the world’s 35 mm and
16 mm markets, because at Rs. 12,000 the producers would make a loss
which could be covered only in the manner suggested. This compares with
. . . the average of Rs. 27,000 spent by the Films Division itself per reel.
The Films Division does not accept the figure quoted for it, but it does
not reveal its actual expenditure. ... Up to date the Ministry has not ac-
cepted the offer of the private producers. 10

It was apparently felt by the government that a governmental
production agency needed to spend far more than a private pro-
ducer to produce comparable material. It had, it frequently in-
sisted, administrative costs. The negotiations collapsed and prices
continued to be set mainly by competitive bidding. Exceptions were
made only for an occastional “prestige" film; for Gotama the
Buddha, marking the twenty-five-hundredth anniversary of the
birth of the Buddha, a contract was made with Bimal Roy without
competitive bids, at approximately twice the usual price-per-foot
for outside productions. In most cases the independent producers
were— in the words used by several— “encouraged to cut each oth-

9 BMPA Journal, August, 1950. ™Ibid.

188

er’s throats." Each year new names were added to the list of ap-
proved producers who were allowed to make bids, and other
names dropped. Strenuous efforts among producers to organize a
gentleman’s agreement to put a floor under the bidding were frus-
trated by the eagerness of newcomers to break into production.
Some producers spent several years on the list without winning a
contract, but no doubt contributed to maintaining the low level
of contract rates.

Fortunately for independent producers with documentary inter-
ests, there were occasional sponsors other than the government. In
the early 1950s Burmah-Shell decided to launch a film department
and engaged James Beveridge, previously of the National Film
Board of Canada, to organize it. Under Beveridge, Burmah-Shell an-
nounced a policy of commissioning its films to Indian producers.
Because of the notable work done under Shell auspices in other
counfric'" the project aroused high hopes, and proceeded to justify
them. Over a period of several years Burmah-Shell issued an im-
pressive series of films including Textiles, directed by Paul Zils and
winner of a 1956 Edinburgh film festival award; Village in Travan-
core, directed by Fali Billiinoria and a winner at Edinburgh the fol-
lowing year; and Panchtupi: A Village in West Bengal, made by
1 lari Das Gupta— who had been assistant to Renoir on The River .

After this encouraging and even inspiring start, and amid indi-
cations of long-range planning, the Burmah-Shell film activity
abruptly halted. The department was dissolved; \ uncs Beveridge
left for home. No specific reason was given by Burmah-Shell, but
various explanations were circulated. One was that Burmah-Shell
had hoped for theatrical showing of some of its documentaries as
approved films, but that Film Advisory Board policy had excluded
consideration of any material carrying a commercial credit line,
and that virtually no other distribution channels had been found
available in India. Another explanation was that Burmah-Shell had
been required by “government pressure" 1 1 to cut prices and public-
relations expenditures. Another was that raw-film shortages were be-
ginning to hamper the unit. In any event, the most encouraging

11 Indian Dontinrnlary, Festival Number, I9.1R.

189

patron of the independent producer suddenly vanished from the
film scene. At about the same time the United States Technical Co-
operation Mission began to curtail its film production program,
which had employed independent producers for several years. Doc-
umentary producers suddenly found that virtually the only source
of employment was the Films Division, and that employment con-
tinued to be on a subsistence level, on competitive-bidding terms.
In 1958 the Statesman aptly wondered whether the so-called inde-
pendent producers should not properly be called “dependent pro-
ducers.” 1 -

That year brought an atmosphere of crisis among these documen-
tary producers. The maga/inc Indian Documentary, which had
been their rallying center, titled an editorial: “is it fareweli, to
documentaries ?” 13 With the following issue it suspended publi-
cation.

It was not the end, however. There was some increase in the use
of advertising films and slides in theatres, and some of the pro-
ducers survived on these, between Films Division assignments. Oc-
casional sponsors of public-relations films also continued to turn up.
Hari Das Gupta, for example, began an ambitious film for Tata
Steel Mills, with “script supervision by Satyajit Ray.” A few states
also sponsored occasional films. But these other sources of support
were irregular or barren of incentive. For most documentary pro-
ducers k best hope lay in having a place on the approved list of the
one all-important patron, the Films Division, and doing its bidding,
at its price, in its manner. In India the future of documentary film,
as of newsreel, hung on the Films Division. The film of fact and the
Films Division had become virtually synonymous. 14

Meanwhile, during these years of conflict, the Films Division had
grown from humble beginnings to an organization of size and sub-

12 Statesman, March 0, 1958.

1a Indian Documentary, Festival Number, 1958.

11 The Films Divisipn's own publications seem to assume this. The brochure
Films Division opens with these words: “T he factual film plays a significant role
in India today. It is the most effective medium for dissemination of information
and education to the masses. Established in 1948, soon after Independence, Films
Division is now one of the largest short film producing organisations in the
world.” Films Division , p. 3.

190

stance. It included in its ranks a number of interesting and talented
people.

Here and there in the Indian film world are individuals who
bridge decades of film history. Such a person is Ezra Mir. Born in
Calcutta in 1902, he attended St. Xavier’s College, had a brief fling
at business with his father, then managed to get a foothold as an
actor in Madan Theatres Ltd. In that same year, 1923, he held a
winning ticket in the St. Leger Sweepstakes and found himself in
possession of Rs. 8,000. He bought some new clothes and booked
passage for the United States. Arriving in New York, he got a job
as an extra with Rudolph Valentino, who was making The Sainted
Devil in a studio on Long Island. This helped Ezra Mir get the rest
of the way to Hollywood, his real destination. After a year and a
half of unemployment, with only intermittent earnings at odd jobs,
he won a place as assistant cutter at Universal Pictures Corpora-
tion, and found himself near the bottom of a vast hierarchy. Hear-
ing that Mr. Laemmle, the man at the top of this hierarchy, was
contemplating purchase of the Madan chain in India, he got word to
Mr. Laemmle that a young Indian was available who had informa-
tion on the Madan organization. Promptly Ezra Mir was spirited
to the Laemmle sanctum. It turned out that Mir could not an-
swer any of Mr. Lacmmlc's questions about Madan’s capital in-
vestments, but Mir took the occasion to let Mr. Laemmle know,
with overwhelming earnestness, that he wanted to be a writer, not
a cutter. Almost casually, he was moved to the sc^ n department.
Later Mir worked for other Hollywood companies and wrote treat-
ments for Dolores Del Rio. Then the corning of ^ound brought up-
heaval. Mir stayed on for a while, then felt it would be wise to re-
turn to India. He arrived in time for the great Indian transformation
to sound. In Calcutta he found Madan in rapid decline so he moved
to Bombay. There he at once became The Man Who Had Been in
Hollywood When It All Started. He became a director of sound
films for Sagar and later Ranjit and others. When war came, his in-
ternational background made him a logical candidate for Informa-
tion Films of India. He became its chief producer. Years later, as
successor to M. D. Bhavnani and J. Bhownagary, he stepped into
a similar position with the Films Division of independent India.

191

With the title producer-in-charge, he became the artistic supervi-
sor of a complex, rapidly growing apparatus.

Few organizations have faced a more staggering production task.
With headquarters in Bombay, it began by making about 36 docu-
mentaries per year, but by the mid-1950s was making over 52 per
year. From the start it maintained a pace of approximately 52 news-
reels per year, and soon supplemented these with monthly “news
magazines." It began by making each film in five languages— Hindi,
Bengali, Tamil, Telugu, English— but later added Kannada, Ma-
layalam, Marathi, Gujarati, Punjabi, Oriya, Assamese, Kashmiri. 15
In 1951 it made 68 prints of each film but later increased the print
order to 96 prints per film. It established a newsreel cameraman
in every state and additional men in the large cities. With the as-
sistance of the U.S. International Cooperation Administration it
started a cartoon film division. In addition to making approved
films for theatres it began to make special films for rural showings
through mobile vans, on such topics as health, agricultural meth-
ods, planned parenthood; films for school use; and films for use at
Indian missions abroad.

A meeting in New Delhi each year began the task of shaping an
agenda for later months. At this meeting representatives of various
ministries would meet with the Films Division to propose topics,
review topics proposed by others, and classify them according to
priority. Since the birth of the Films Division the overwhelming
majority of topics has originated with ministries of the central gov-
ernment. A topic has usually had a ministry as its sponsor and has
had a content consultant designated by the ministry. Even topics
proposed by the Films Division itself, or by others, have been han-
dled in this manner. Under the producer-in-charge and his deputy
producer, the Films Division developed an echelon of assistant pro-
ducers, each supervising several directors. A film ultimately became
the task of a director— or, in some cases, of an outside producer. In
most cases the staff director or outside producer has done the writ-
ing. At various jtages he would have to check with the assistant

15 In 1960 “simple Urdu" replaced Kashmiri as state language of Kashmir.

192

producer, who in turn might check with the deputy producer or
producer-in-charge, who might check with the ministry consultant.
At several prescribed stages— script, edited workprint, test print—
there would be meetings of director, assistant producer, deputy pro-
ducer, producer-in-charge, and ministry consultant, to review, ne-
gotiate, correct, approve, or reject. A four-month production cy-
cle became normal.

That an apparatus of such size, and with diplomatic proceed-
ings so exacting, should function at all and meet its schedules is in
itself remarkable. That its procedures should impose on the films a
characteristic Films Division pattern and style is not surprising.
From the very beginnings of the system, the films were under the
control of ministry representatives with little or no film background.
Some were men of considerable education, products of a highly
verbalized culture. To them it was, quite naturally, the words in
the narration that counted. The pictures— subsidiary, in their view—
that wouid accompany those words could safely be left to others. The
typical Films Division film has had constant narration, crowded
with information. Tf the facts were there, embedded in the words,
the consultant would usually feel his mission had been achieved.

The problem of producing each film in numerous languages has
contributed to the overemphasis on narration. Inevitably, dialogue
has been discouraged. Tensions and sensitivities over language have
also contributed to the narrative fixation. Although Nehru and
other ministers have appeared constantly in Film Division films—
both in documentaries and in newsreels— they ha e been seen talk-
ing, seldom hand. The inevitable voice-over narrator has sup-
plied the gist of things said, in any of thirteen languages. The status
of the ministers as national symbols has been preserved by keep-
ing them as silent, lip-wagging mysteries.

The Films Division, in its distribution, has tried to follow the pol-
icy of matching the language of the documentary or newsreel to the
language of the scheduled feature. A Telugu feature would gener-
ally be joined by a Telugu documentary or newsreel. With features
in circulation in numerous languages, the logistics problems in-
volved in such a policy have been considerable.

193

Pilot Projec t , 1962. films division documentary on modernization

OF RIVER TRANSPORT

Ironically, English became and remained the operating lan-
guage of the Films Division. After approval in its English form, a
narration would be translated into the official 11111' <n languages. In
some of the Indian versions, it was found that the narration might
run longer than in English. An informal rule therefore developed:
the English narration must not use more than 80 percent of the
available time. It has seldom used less.

With all these operational handicaps, the Films Division yet de-
veloped during the 1950s into an organization commanding re-
spect. Its films were modest and factual in manner and well photo-
graphed. In international festivals they began to win “certificates
of merit” and occasional other awards. At the 1951 documentary
film festival at Venice, Jaipur (Jaipur won a First Prize. At the 1956
festival of documentary and experimental films in Montevideo,
Symphony oj Life won a First Prize. At the Manila festival in the

195

same year, Khajuraho (Khajuraho) won a Silver Carabao for “cul-
tural values." The following year at Cannes, Gotama the Buddha
was cited for “exceptional moral and artistic beauty.” 10

To be sure, the films continued to be a target for frequent criti-
cism at home. One complaint was that too large a proportion of
newsreel items involved activities of cabinet members— cutting rib-
bons, laying cornerstones. No doubt this was partly a result of the
readiness of ministers to cut ribbons and lay cornerstones. Another
charge was that this predilection for the activities of cabinet mem-
bers favored the party in power. Yet it was hardly up to the Films
Division to avoid cabinet members in deference to defeated par-
ties. The films were also criticized for stodginess and sameness of
manner. The biographical films were criticized for a tendency to
sweep controversial issues under the rug. 17

Yet with all these problems and criticisms, the Films Division
was accomplishing something. The Film Enquiry Committee, in
1951, did not find audiences as hostile as exhibitors had claimed.
The documentaries and newsreels were opening the eyes of filmgo-
ers to many phases of the development of their country, and to the
huge tasks facing it. The films on Indian sculptures and cave
paintings were acquainting them with an artistic heritage which, to
astonishing numbers of Indians, had long been a closed book. The
geographical films were showing them parts of their own country
which they had never seen and which, a few years before, they had
not known existed.

The Films Division represented the first step of the government
of independent India in “public-sector” film enterprise. Under the
Indian five-year plans, the ultimate aim is a socialist economy. Cer-
tain basic fields have been allocated entirely and immediately to the
public sector. In others, “private-sector” enterprise has been encour-
aged to continue, although “public-sector” enterprise may also be
undertaken. Still others have been left largely to private initiative.

16 Films Division , pp. 1J-12.

17 In a biographical film on the nationalist leader Lokmanya Tilak, for example,
his disagreements with Gandhi were completely ignored, and the viewer left
with an impression of complete harmony in the independence movement— an
example of the hazards of official biographies.

196

The inauguration of the Films Division placed the film medium
in the middle category. A few years later the government decided
on a second step in public-sector film activity. The Film Enquiry
Committee had found an almost complete absence of films serving
the needs of children and had urged the film industry to consider
those needs. The Ministry of Information and Broadcasting, in its
1954-55 Report , announced the decision of the government to “pro-
mote the formation of a Children's Film Society. 18 It was launched
in 1955 as a quasi-independent corporation and was provided with
government funds to produce and distribute children's films.

The government envisaged other possible steps in public-sector
film enterprise. In 1955 Prime Minister Nehru addressed a seminar
of leading film artists, held in New Delhi under the auspices of the
Sangeet Natak Akadami (Academy of Music, Dance, and Drama). It
was the first time the government had convoked a group of film
maker., * “cultural” context. The seminar was conducted under
the guidance of Devika Rani, who emerged from private life for the
unusual occasion.

The Prime Minister described the film medium as a “tremendous
thing," with an influence in India “greater than the influence of
newspapers and books all combined" (ciieers), but quipped: “I am
not at the moment talking about the quality of the influence"
(laughter), lie then told the assembled film makers, all from the
private sector, that the government would be “likely to compete
with private ventures in films.” He felt that “the ■ 'suit might be a
setting up of standards by a certain measure of competition." 10

This comment raises the question of whethci “a certain measure
of competition" might not also have been beneficial to the Films
Division, an organ i/at ion serving a controlled documentary market.
The Prime Minister may not have been aware of how firmly his
government had moved to avert the development of private com-
petition in this field.

The central instrument of those moves had been the block-book-
ing contract imposed on theatres soon after independence. Seldom
has a contract conferred firmer control. Illustrative of this is the

,H Report, 79W-55, p. 3. 10 Film Seminar Report, pp. 13-15.

197

curious arbitration clause of the contract. In the event of any dis-
pute between the government— the “distributor”— and the party of
the second part— the “exhibitor"— the contract provided that the
dispute would be “referred to the sole arbitration of the Secretary,
Ministry of Information and Broadcasting, Government of India,"
or anyone designated by him. Apparently aware that exhibitors
might consider this a one-sided arrangement, the contract added:
“No objection shall be taken to any such reference on the ground
that the person so appointed is a servant under the Distributor and
has to deal with the matter in the course of normal duties." 20 In
other words, all disputes would be settled by the government.

By the end of its first decade the Films Division had grown into an
organization of over five hundred employees, with its own com-
pound, its own group of buildings, its own nationwide distributing
organi/ation. It had become one of the few elements of stability in
the Indian film world. Most of its technicians, while low-paid, had a
slightly higher level of pay than comparable workers in the private
sector, 21 and had in addition a measure of security. Under the lead-
ership of the patient, ever-diplomatic Ezra Mir, produccr-in-charge,
the Films Division was winning the strong confidence and support
of government. An air of assurance was beginning to surround the
organization.

In 1957 the Ministry of Information and Broadcasting decided on
a new move. In the chief cities it would inaugurate special theatres
showing exclusively government documentaries and newsreels, for
a very low admission charge. The first such venture was the Films Di-
vision Auditorium in the heart of New Delhi, opened in 1957, with
an admission price of Re. 0.25. It was the ministry’s first cautious
move to test the independent box-office attraction of its produc-
tions, so long deprecated by exhibitors. The small auditorium was
opened with appropriate ceremony by R. K. Ramadhyani, Secre-
tary of the Ministry of Information and Broadcasting— later presi-
dential secretary. Ramadhyani stated: “In this auditorium it is

m Agreement, p. 3.

21 Report of an Enquiry into the Conditions of Labour, p. 49.

198

proposed to have two shows of films, one in the forenoon and one in
the afternoon, of about one hour each. Depending on the demand,
the number of shows may be suitably increased.” 22 The resulting
attendance almost immediately caused the number of shows to be
“suitably” decreased. The forenoon showings were dropped en-
tirely. Monday showings were eliminated. Sunday shows were
lengthened to two hours. In a city of a million, capital of the na-
tion, the official documentaries could hardly draw a thousand peo-
ple in a week.

As early as 1950 the Ministry of Information and Broadcasting
was estimating that its documentaries were being seen by 15 mil-
lion people. 28 Its auditorium venture, though described in an offi-
cial report as “very popular,” 21 must have shown the ministry
how dependent it was for its mass audience on an industry whose
products it heartily disliked. If each of the documentaries was
reaching 15.000,000 people, it was doing so as a hitchhiker, riding
with feature films. But this strong dependence of the public sector
on the private sector was not likely to increase the affection between
them— as we shall see.

There me other kinds of music

When Dr. Keskar— Balkrishna Vishwanath Kcskar, D. Litt.— be-
came Minister of Information and Broadcast inf in 1952, he ac-
quired responsibility for a number of gen eminent agencies dealing
with the mass media. They included among others the Films Divi-
sion, the Central Board of Film Censors, the Mobile Units, the Pub-
lications Division, the Press Information Bureau, and the entire
broadcasting chain known as A.I.R.— All India Radio.

Dr. Keskar had not had experience in any of these media, but he
brought to his task an impressive record. Educated at Poona, Hy-

28 Ramadhyani, Kssays and Addresses, p. 2(H)

23 Statement by R. R. Diwakar, quoted in Jo mat of the Him Industry , January,
1950.

24 Report , 1959-60, p. 20.

199

derabad, Banaras, and Paris, he had long been prominent in the
councils of the Indian National Congress. In 1946 he had been a
member of India's Constituent Assembly. In the same year he was
appointed Deputy Minister of External Affairs. In 1950 he served
on the Indian delegation to the United Nations. Two years later
he became Minister of Information and Broadcasting.

He had always been a devotee of Indian classical music, and this
gave him an immediate special interest in All India Radio, which
he envisaged playing a prominent role in a revival of Indian classi-
cal culture— especially its music.

In relation to the film industry Dr. Keskar seemed less at ease,
but he soon began to make official appearances at film functions. On
these occasions he generally wore the chudidar, the tight pants
worn by many Congress leaders, along with the sharwani or long
coat. In this native garb, his thin figure had an ascetic look in al-
most any film gathering.

Film makers soon learned that Dr. Keskar had many misgivings
about film and the film industry and would be frank about them,
whenever asked to speak. Soon after taking office he told a confer-
ence of producers: “Producers in this line should have a certain
background of culture. ... At present there is hardly any standard
maintained by many of the productions we see on the screen." 25 A
few months later, at a tea party given for him by the Bengal Mo-
tion Picture Association, he told the gathering: “My experience
of the film industry has been that a large part of it is not con-
scious of its proper functions, although I know that there must be
many at the same time who are.” 20

Meanwhile, on several occasions, Dr. Keskar had criticized film
songs, and had already made policy decisions that reflected his feel-
ings about them. In July, 1952, the Journal of the Film Industry car-
ried the news that All India Radio would reduce the time given to
film songs. 27 Dr. Keskar had also decided to end the long-standing
practice of mentioning the titles of films from which the songs came.

V,

“ BMP A Journal, July-August, 1952.

" Ibid., May, 1953.

w Journal of the Film Industry, July, 1952.

200

He would permit the name of the singer, but the name of the film
would be considered “advertising," and disallowed. Dr. Keskar did
not heed the angry protests of the producers— who were the copy-
right owners— with the result that they decided to discontinue
the performing licenses under which All India Radio had been
broadcasting film songs. Thus film music abruptly disappeared from
all transmitters in India.

This sudden purification of the airwaves was, to many devotees
of Indian classical music, a major event and a triumph, for which
Dr. Keskar was warmly praised. For they regarded film music not
only as an abomination but as a threat to a sacred cause— the sur-
vival of classical music.

Their feelings on this subject touched on many issues, but began
with that of instrumentation. The use in film songs of such instru-
ments as the piano, harmonium, vibraphone, xylophone, and saxo-
phone involved adoption of the Western tempered scale. This, it
was felt, was rapidly blunting Indian cars to the nuances of tradi-
tional Indian music. During the 1955 Film Seminar— also addressed
by Nehru— this point was discussed by R. Ranjan, a prominent ac-
tor, dancer, and musician, and director of a school of music and
dancing in Madras:

With the adoption of the tempered scale of the west, our musicians be-
come oblivious of the delicacies and subtleties of the 22-sruti scale. . . .
What gives eternal strength and (harm to Indian mu.v> is its immense po-
tentiality lor delicate touches by the use of the 22-sruti sc*- 28

For this reason, he felt, the survival of Indian rrusic required dras-
tic action. Moves against film music wet'* only a part of what was
needed. He called lor official steps to "popularize correct ideas"
about musical scales and instruments and to “ban the use of the
harmonium and other keyboard instruments from all schools, col-

w Film Seminar Report , p. 155. The use of quarter tones and microtones is a dis-
tinctive feature of Indian classical music. Twenty-two such notes or srutis (ten
notes in addition to the universal twelve sen 1 ‘ones) have been the foundation of
the Indian musical scale. In briet, the octave is divided into twenty-two unequal
intervals.

201

leges and dance institutions.*' 20 He was willing that the violin
should stay; it placed no limit on nuances and, moreover, its origin
had been traced to India. But the rest “must vanish immediately/* 80
Then there could be “a concord of sweet sound . . . which would
entrance our inner spirit/* 31

Such feelings were all part of the larger crusade— so important to
Dr. Keskar— on behalf of Indian classical music. Under him more
than 50 percent of all broadcast music came to be Indian classical
music. Indian folk music, played in traditional styles, became an-
other large classification. All India Radio accumulated a list of
“over 7,000 approved classical music artists/' 32 who were to make
intermittent appearances, and each year the list was increased. In a
talk broadcast in January, 1957, Dr. Keskar reviewed the efforts
made:

The object is to encourage the revival of our traditional music, classical and
folk. Both were in a state of decay and somnolence. It is obvious that
music, which formerly flourished on account of royal and princely pa-
tronage, will not revive and flourish unless the State can extend to them the
same or extended patronage. The Radio is fulfilling that task for the
nation and I can say with satisfaction that it has become the greatest patron
of Indian music and musicians, greater than all the princely and munifi-
cent patronage of former days . 33

All India Radio was acclaimed by many as the savior of Indian
classical music. It was largely in the regime of Dr. Keskar that it
won this name.

One of the functions of the Ministry of Information and Broad-
casting, of which All India Radio is a part, has been to serve as a
“link between the Government and the people/* One of its tasks, in
the era of newly won freedom, was to “rouse in the common man
a new sense of urgency and duty to the community.** 34 In the film
medium, the ministry had the Films Division for this task; in the
radio medium. All India Radio. But in the latter case the entire
system, including all transmitters and programing, was controlled

29 Film Seminar Report, p. 155.

80 Ibid., p. 228. 81 Ibid., p. 155.

88 Report, 1956-57, p. 69. , 88 Ibid. M Report , 1954-55, p. 1.

202

by the ministry. For radio in India had been nationalized under
the British as early as 1930 and had been built up in the image of
the British Broadcasting Corporation. With the coming of independ-
ence, it naturally remained in the “public sector.”

At that time— August, 1 9-1 7 — All India Radio had six stations and
less than a quarter of a million licensed listeners. 35 The small size
of the following was accepted as natural in view of the close iden-
tification the system had had with British rule. Its prewai Director-
General, Lionel Fielden of the British Broadcasting Corporation,
had himself described his four years of strenuous effort as “enough
to make a cat laugh. It was the biggest flop of all time." 30

But independent India foresaw a major role for radio in the era
of national transformation, and embarked on an A.I.R. Develop-
ment Plan designed to make the system “available to a population
of about 220 millions” 37 out of India’s four hundred million. The
first decade of freedom saw a substantial expansion of the facilities.
By January, 1957, the six stations had grown to 28 stations, offer-
ing primary coverage to most of the nation. All major language
groups were being served. The expansion had been accompanied by
government drives to promote the sal. of radio sets. But with all
these efforts the number of licensed sets had grown, by October,
195fi, to only 1,128,599. 3H Only a small proportion of these were
community receivers. Most of India’s population was still un-
touched by radio. Dismaying as the statistics wer' 1 . still more dis-
couraging was the fact that most of the existing set. T ere tuned reg-
ularly— espet ially in the late afternoons and early evenings— to
Radio Ceylon.

The exact dimensions of this problem were not made clear. The
Ministry of Information and Broadcasting itself made an audience
study during this period, 30 but declined to reveal its findings. Five
years later inquirers wcie still told by the ministry that the study

” Repot I, 7956-57, p. 24.

30 Fielden, The Xatuial Rent , p. 204.

37 Report, p. 1.

** Report, 7956-57, p. 20.

" Repot t, '957-5.V, p. 21.

203

was not “public information. 1,40 Meanwhile less formal checks by
foreign broadcasters and commercial advertisers indicated that the
commercial short-wave service of Radio Ceylon, with a schedule
consisting solely of Indian film songs and advertising, dominated the
air over India at peak hours.

Dr. Keskar tried to minimize the issues raised by film songs and
the rise of Radio Ceylon. In October, 1954, he was quoted as de-
claring that “except for raw and immature people like children
and adolescents," 41 householders in general detested film music.

Light was later thrown on the situation by UNESCO, which
gathered and tabulated statistics on radio sets in various countries

‘around 1958." These figures showed: 42

Radio sets per 1,000

Radio sets per 1

inhabitants

inhabitants

Japan 158

Laos 7

Ceylon 25

India 4

Indonesia 7

When All India Radio had launched its drive for the “revival of
our traditional music," there was no thought that this might con-
ceivably limit the network’s role as “link between the Government
and the people." Yet indications were that this had happened.

Naushad Ali, a leading music director for films, responsible for a
number of the most successful film songs, offered an explanation.
Referring particular^ to north Indian classical music, he wrote:

Classical sangeet has never been the art of the masses. It was first born in the
sacred temples and later flourished in the glamorous courts of the Rajas,
Maharajas and the Nawabs. . . .The common people who had no access to
the great durbars were never offered the opportunity of listening to classical
music. They could not, therefore, acquire an appreciative car for it. 43

The attempt to make this highly specialized music a part of the
everyday environment of millions was, to Naushad Ali, an artificial
imposition. The music had been in the first instance the preoccupa-
tion of small elite groups, who took special pride in its mysteries.
To many millions of Indians it was almost as remote as the music

40 Interview, Bhaji. 41 BMPA Journal, October, 1954.

42 Developing Mass Media of Asia, p. 50.

** Indian Talkie, 1931-56, p. 99.

204

of British string ensembles. In the view of Naushad Ali, film music—
a spontaneous and exuberant growth, emerging from an older folk
music and adapting itself to a new era and its influences— was the
real folk music of modern India.

Throughout these years of debate, the uncompromising level of
All India Radio’s programing had a magnificence of its own. It
introduced as an annual event a National Symposium of Poets—
something few nations would attempt. It regularly broadcast read-
ings in Sanskrit, a language spoken, according to government sta-
tistics, by 555 people. 44 It organi/ed a Music Symposium in which
musicologists discussed such topics as “the Evolution of Dhruvapada
in Hindustani Music” and “The Evolution of Kritis in Karnataka
Music.” The National Programme of 'Falks, broadcast over all sta-
tions, offered such subjects as “Modern Prose and Traditional San-
skrit Style,” “Adequacy of Indian Prose for Contemporary Needs
of Expression,” and “Intellectual Life in Pre-British India.” Cur-
rent coiiuoversy was shunned; the 1956- 57 Report mentioned with
apparent satisfaction that “controversial party broadcasts have
again been avoided.” However, the Chief Election Commissioner
delivered three national talks on “the desirability of maintaining
law and order during the elections and the duties of public servants
in connection with the elect ions.” 4,1

Despite its generally unflinching performance, it was not a great
surprise when All India Radio in 1957 took a step in a different di-
rection. This move had to do, in part, with film *ongs. The f.lm
producers had already renewed the performance li nses of All In-
dia Radio. This was now followed, with as much fanfare as the sit-
uation allowed, by the inauguration of a new service, “a landmark
in the history of All India Radio.” Ovei two powerful short-wave
stations from Bombay and Madras, blanketing the nation, India be-
gan a continuous offering of “popular music and light entertain-
ment.” Portions of it were also to be rebroadcast, at various times
of the day, over the regional medium-wave stations. The ministry
made it clear that the new service would not offer only film music.
There were, it was emphasized, oth ‘r kinds of music. But film

44 India , 1961 , p. 23.

45 Report , 1956-57, p. 17.

205

songs "approved by the Screening Committees” would be used, and
"adequate allocation of time for film music has been made at each
station.” 46 The raw and immature, the adolescent and the child,
were being invited back.

For the mass of the people

Throughout the struggles over film songs and documentary films,
there was also conflict over censorship.

The determination to cleanse India of corrupting Western influ-
ences was a force in this conflict, as in the struggle over film music.
The impulse showed itself in a variety of ways, including a deter-
mination to enforce stricter decorum in manners and dress. Al-
though kisses, even between Indians, had occasionally been permit-
ted in the 1930s— the royal lovers in Karma kissed several times—
kissing became more strictly taboo after independence. For a while
this taboo w r as enforced even in foreign films. Indians became ac-
customed to strange jumps in such films. A shot of lips approaching
'would be abruptly followed by a shot of lips withdrawing. Similarly,
in a drinking sequence, a hand lifting a glass from a table would be
abruptly followed by the hand replacing the glass on the table.

The absurdity of such effects led to occasional relaxation of stand-
ards for foreign films. This was rationalized on the ground that
drinking and public, kissing were customary among foreigners, and
also on the ground that foreign films were now shown regularly in
only a few dozen theatres, reaching only a relatively sophisticated
segment of Indian society. This double censorship standard was al-
ways sharply criticized by Indian producers. The BMPA Journal
complained bitterly: “Differential treatment to Indians and English-
men had been the fate of India under British rule. Codes of treat-
ment of one and the other in almost every sphere used to be
different/’ 47 The BMPA Journal considered it scandalous that inde-
pendent India should continue discriminatory practices. Ministry
spokesmen were thus periodically pushed into promising equal
treatment for all — which meant, in effect, equally harsh treatment
for foreign as for Indian films. But strict adherence to this policy
was found to be difficult.

1 Report , 1957-58, p. 9. 47 BMPA Journal, May, 1950.

206

Although censorship in India was probably already more severe
than that in any other leading film-producing nation, officialdom
was under constant pressure to intensify rather than ease it. At
virtually all sessions of the Lok Sabha and the Rajya Sabha, the
two houses of the Indian parliament, mei ibers requested the Min-
ister of Information and Broadcasting to pledge renewed effort to
purge the film industry of unwholesome influences. A leader in
these demands was Mrs. Lilavati Munshi, wife of the lawyer, au-
thor, and statesman K. M. Munshi. A member of the Rajya Sabha,
she was also a constant letter writer and speaker in the cause of
stricter censorship, and eventually formed a Society for the Preven-
tion of Unhealthy Trends in Motion Pictures. She attacked the
American and Indian film industries with equal indignation:

There is hardly any Hollywood picture that does not show long and pas-
sionate kisses and hardly any Indian picture without a hoy running after a
girl. T he dances are all so designed as to excite the lower instinct lurking in
every nunuui being. Newspapers and journals too give colourful stories
about cinema stars to boost circulation. Some of them print pin-up girls
to be viewed by impressionable adults. As a result, man) young people
leave their homes dreaming to become cinema stars. This disease is wide-
spread even among very young boys. 48

She addressed a letter to “Mrs. Mamie Eisenhower, White House,
Washington, D.C. M to tell her that some Hollywood films, not spe-
cifically identified, “come to India and ruin the moral fibre of our
younger generations." If Mrs. Eisenhower could “:'op the produc-
tion of such Hollywood films," Mrs. Munshi toh her, it would
surely be “one of the monumental acts" of the Eisenhower presi-
dency . 40

Indian producers were vaguely aware that film interests in the
United States had reduced censorship interference by appeals
through the courts, based on constitutional guarantees. A few such
efforts were made in India, but without success. The efforts led Dr.
Keskar to warn producers: “J would warn the industry not to run
after the mirage of getting asserted a particular right by legal
means ." 50

4S Report of the Society for the Prevention of Unhealthy Trend s in Motion Pic -
tines, No. 1, p. 9.

40 Ibid., No. 2, pp. 12-13. r, ° Quoted in UMPA Journal, July-August, 1952.

207

The hope of successful anticensorship litigation did indeed ap-
pear to be a mirage. The legal framework within which censor-
ship was operating in India diffcied sharply from that in effect in
the United States. In the latter, governmental powers were circum-
scribed, soon after adoption of the federal Constitution, by guaran-
tees of the Bill of Rights, including the First Amendment guaran-
tee of freedom of the press. This guarantee, broadened by judicial
interpretation to include film and broadcasting, has been a sort of
Magna Charta of the media of expression. In the Republic of In-
dia the Constitution likewise acquired, soon after its adoption, a
First Amendment dealing with censorship, but its effect was the op-
posite: it was a Magna Charta for the censor. The Constitution it-
self, in its Article 19, had established “the right to freedom of
speech and expression." India’s First Amendment, adopted in
1951, whittled this down by authorizing parliament to enact “rea-
sonable restrictions" on the freedom of speech and expression “in
the interests of the security of the State, friendly relations with for-
eign states, public order, decency or morality, or in relation to con-
tempt of court, defamation or incitement to an offence." Thus cen-
sorship in India acquired a firm, explicit constitutional base, which
has given the government censorship powers almost impossible to
challenge. A court could presumably interfere only on the ground
that a restriction was “unreasonable." To date there have been no
court actions of this sort.

Operating on firm constitutional grounds, the Indian censors
have proceeded with a sense of assurance. The Central Board of
Film Censors, which began functioning on January 15, 1951, has
provided its examining committees with instructions that comprise
a sort of code, listing types of material that may be grounds for cen-
sorship action. Issued in November, 1952, and subsequently revised
from time to time, the list has retained items that date from colonial
days of the 1920s, such as taboos on “excessively passionate love
scenes," “indelicate sexual situations," “unnecessary exhibition of
feminine underclothing," “indecorous dancing," “realistic horrors
of warfare," “exploitation of tragic incidents of war," “blackmail
associated with immorality," “intimate biological studies," “gross
travesties of the administration of justice," as well as material likely

208

to promote "disaffection or resistance to Government." Other items
of a previous era, such as "scenes holding up the King’s uniform to
contempt and ridicule," have necessarily disappeared, although in
a sense they were retained in broader form in a taboo on material
likely to "wound the susceptibilities of any foreign nation." The
new directives also borrowed from the Hollywood Production Code,
as in the prefatory General Principles banning any film "which
will lower the moral standards of those who see it." 51

While the full range of authorized and proclaimed grounds for
censorship appears to have been used by Indian censors, their ac-
tions seem, like literary trends, to have run in cycles. An obsession
of the mid-1950s was described as follows by the BMPA Journal :

Censorship in India is fast becoming a censorship of the female anatomy
with the emphasis currently in vogue on cutting "Emphasized bosom" of
heroines in some of our pictures. We deplore any attempt on the part of
anyone exploit the lower emotions of man but we cannot agree that the
female anatomy should be tampered with to please the neo-moralist, that
is the Indian film censor. We do not know whether there has been any new T
directive to the censor W'hich is kept before the mind’s eye while examining
pictures for certification. The common boy or girl does not pay as much at-
tention to the dress or contour of a woman .is the censors do. 52

The editorial was referring to censorship orders of the following
sort. For the Hindi film Darn (Dara):

Delete. . . . Mid-close and close shots showing Usha emphasized oust

when she is on a jeep, as she jumps down, as she runs fac camera.

For the Telugu film Pempudu Koduhu (Foster Child):

Delete . . . the closc-up of Sundays busts when she is lying dead on the bed.

For the Tamil Manitamim Mrigamum (Man and Beast):

Reduce close-ups and side-shots ol Kamala’s busts in the second dance.

For the Hindi Gunehgar (Gunehgar):

Delete. . . . Close view of bust of Sarla as she is lying on back in the gang-
ster’s den. 53

51 Indian Motion Picture Almanac and Who's Who, 1953, p. 215.

M BMPA Journal, November. 1954. ” Ibid.

209

A particularly arbitrary aspect of Indian censorship, after inde-
pendence as before it, has been the sudden reversal— the abrupt un-
certification of a film already approved and in distribution, and for
which heavy promotion expenses may have been made. Thus in
1956 a number of feature films dealing with Africa, all of which
seemed harmless to the censors when first reviewed, were suddenly
uncertified. National susceptibilities, conveyed through informal di-
plomacy, appear to have been involved. The films included The
African Queen, The Snows of Kilimanjaro, Untamed, Tanganyika,
African Adventure, and Below the Sahara. The official explanation
was that they “fail to portray the people of Africa in proper per-
spective.” R4 A similar action was taken in regard to The King and L
Producers, distributors, and exhibitors felt they had no recourse
against such reversals.

On the subject of censorship, as on other phases of the govern-
ment-industry feud, protests and discussions accomplished little, and
often only led to increased irritation on both sides. To the industry
the censors were, by and large, bureaucrats intent on being as arbi-
trary as their British predecessors, and oficn more bigoted in their
decisions. To many government people, the industry was an agglom-
eration of irresponsible, fly-by-night units, whose works seemed ir-
relevant to the great tasks of independence, who were intent on
making money by the exploitation of sex and sensation, and who
deserved to be dealt *with firmly on moral questions— and taxed as
severely as possible.

Dr. Keskar,.in his appearances at film conventions, usually de-
fended the need for strict censorship, and did so in terms which were
especially irksome to film producers. He defended strict censorship
as the will of the people, an expression of democracy. He appeared
as champion of the popular will:

Films in Indian languages are meant for and seen by the mass of the peo-
ple, most of whom are not educated. . . . Now, the mass in any country is
to some extent conventional, has certain prejudices that cannot be helped.
An intellectual or q^ucatcd audience can forgive or even appreciate uncon-
ventional themes or ideas put on the screen. The same cannot be said of the
bulk of the people. I am afraid this fact is conveniently forgotten. . . .

54 Statesman , May 5, 1956.

210

Unfortunately government cannot forget it because it is elected by the mass
of the people and it has to take into consideration their feelings and sen-
timents. 155

That Dr. Keskar, whose radio policies were facilitating the rise of
Radio Ceylon, should be interpreting for film producers the “feel-
ings and sentiments'' of the masses sccrmd to producers particularly
absurd and outrageous. They were hardly willing to accept him as
interpreter and champion of the will of the people, even of its
prejudices.

Approved films, film songs, censorship, taxes. In these and other
areas of dispute— to some extent surface manifestations of a strug-
gle between private and public enterprise— industry and govern-
ment exchanged argument and challenge throughout the first
decade of independence. To judge from trade publications, this
feuding was the chief preoccupation of the world of film. Fortu-
nately b was noi.

Throughout the decade men were making films. Each year some
three hundred films emerged on Indian screens. As had been the
case each year since the Second World War, the three hundred
films represented almost as many different producers. As had been
the case in each of those years, the almost three hundred producers
involved scores of newcomers- often called “adventurers." Among
those who made their debut in the mid-1950s w r as Satyajit Ray, of
Calcutta.

Wide World

Like many of those called adventurers, Satyajit Ray (1921- ) be-

gan his first film with only a fraction of the lunds needed to finish it.
And like many, he began without any film production experience,
either as cameraman, directoi, producer, performei, or assistant of
any sort. Yet there had been a preparation.

Satyajit Ray was born into an exti.. ordinarily gifted family. His
father, Sukumar Ray, was a prominent Bengali w r ritcr as well as a

5,5 Quoted ill BMPA Journal, July- August . I9 r >2.

211

painter and “master of the photographic art. M He also founded a
children's magazine for which he wrote many nonsense verses
“which have come to stay as permanent stock in our juvenile litera-
ture/' 1 He printed this magazine on his own printing press and did
illustrations for it. Satyajit Ray's grandfather, Upendrakishor Ray,
had also been a writer and a compiler of “one of the best books of
nursery tales in Bengali/' 2 In addition, he was a violinist, a pioneer
in halftone block printing in India, and a friend of Rabindranath
Tagore. Tagore came frequently to the Ray home.

Sukumar Ray died in 1923, when his son Satyajit was only two
years old. The printing press which Sukumar Ray had operated for
twenty years had to be abandoned, and the family faced a time of fi-
nancial stress. Satyajit grew up in the home of his maternal uncle,
while his mother taught embroidery and leatherwork in a home for
widows. Under these circumstances Satyajit completed his school-
ing. The financial troubles may help to explain why, at college, he
took up the study of economics, in which at nineteen he earned a
,B.A. from the University of Calcutta.

Rabindranath Tagore had long taken an interest in Satyajit, urg-
ing his mother to let him study at Santiniketan. As a result he
went there in 1940 for further studies under Tagore, staying until
1942. Tagore, who had influenced almost all the arts of modern In-
dia, died in 1941.

Santiniketan represented resistance to the traditions of rote learn-
ing. Here the emphasis was on development from within. The plan
included daily meditations and group meetings outdoors in a gar-
den atmosphere. At Santiniketan Satyajit Ray concentrated on
study of the graphic arts.

In 1943, at twenty-two, he entered the Calcutta branch of D. J.
Keymer, a British-owned advertising agency, to earn his living as an
advertising artist. Four years later he became art director of the
branch.

1 Sen, History of Bengali Literature , p. 341.

■ Ibid.

212

Young man with a script

Throughout his years of study he had been an ardent filmgoer.
In his teens he had already selected films according to their direc-
tors rather than their stars. He wanted to see films directed by John
Ford, Ernst Lubitsch, William Wyler. He also read every available
book about film, including works of Eisenstein and Pudovkin. He
studied the scripts in Twenty Best Film Plays, the 1943 anthology
compiled by John Gassner and Dudley Nichols. On a few occasions
he watched his cousin, Nitin Bose, direct at New Theatres. In 1947,
the year of independence, Satyajit Ray and Chidananda Das Gupta
founded the Calcutta Film Society largely as a vehicle for contin-
ued, intensive study of film.

Satyajit Ray already harbored thoughts of film production and
for some time pursued an exacting method of training. When a film
adaptation of a well-known work was about to appear, he would
study the book and write a complete film script. Watching the
produced film, he compared it inwardly with his own version, no-
ting opportunities he might have missed and matters on which he
would have improved on the produced film. By this technique he
gained knowledge of his medium— and mounting confidence in
himself.

In 1950 the Keymer advertising agency decided to send him to
London for a period of study and training at the head office. The
trip also proved an extraordinary opportunity to 4 ce films. In Lon-
don he saw new and old films of many lands, not a* . liable in India,
and became especially excited over the work of De Sica, Visconti,
and other Italian directors.

When Ray returned to Calcutta, Jean Renoir— with whom he had
become , acquainted before the trip— was hard at work on The
River . The chance to watch several days of location shooting
formed the next step in Satyajit Ray's film education. With Renoir,
Ray discussed a plan forming in his mind, and received strong
encouragement to go ahead.

Throughout the years at the D. J. Keymer agency Ray, as a side
occupation, illustrated books and designed book jackets. In the
course of this work he designed a new, abridged edition of a widely

213

read two-volume novel, Father Panchali, by Bibhuti Banerji. Not
surprisingly, a screen version took shape in his mind, and this idea
became an obsession. He sounded out Banerji on the possibility of
turning the novel into a film.

A number of film producers wanted to buy the screen rights.
When the author died, the problems of selecting a producer and
negotiating a sale were left to the heirs. The illustrations made by
Ray, and his obviously deep understanding and love of the work,
helped the heirs to decide. Although Ray had never produced a
film, he was permitted to buy the screen rights to Father Panchali
for Rs. 6,000.

As he worked on his screenplay, he also began to look for people
and locations. In the tradition stemming from Robert Flaherty and
more recently exemplified by the Italian neorealists, Ray was in-
tent on using natural backgrounds as much as possible, as well as
making maximum use of nonactors. Tie especially wanted to avoid
familiar star faces, which would tend to shape roles into the molds
of previous successes. Gradually the pieces began to fit together. He
found a village, a meadow, a patch of woods, a boy, a girl. He tenta-
tively selected a cameraman and technical assistants. The most elu-
sive problem, for a long time, was the casting of the ancient aunt.

Pather Panchali became a feverish adventure that consumed all
after-hours, weekends, and holidays. As production planning pro-
gressed, it was accompanied by the search for funds. Like many an-
other, Ray began to seek out potential backers, particularly film
distributors. Before long he had called on several dozen such finan-
ciers. The encounters followed a pattern. The door was in each case
open to him, for he held the screen rights for Pather Panchali ,
which many had wanted. They were interested in knowing his plans
and proposals.

To explain these Satyajit Ray had a notebook in which he had
written his entire screenplay, specifying camera usage and even in-
cluding on each page a series of sketches, to indicate the composi-
tion of key shots. In an accompanying sketchbook, dramatic high-

■i

lights had been pictured in greater detail with wash sketches. 3

■ The script and book of wash sketches have been donated by Satyajit Ray to the
Cinematheque Franchise, Paris. For examples of the wash sketches, see the title
pages.

214

page from sATYAjir ray script tor Pat her Panchali
COURTESY c:i N K \1 A 1 11 1QI IF I RAN^AISF.

215

Most of the distributors visited by Ray had never seen a screen-
play so complete in detail, nor a proposal so fully conceived and
presented. Most hardly knew what to make of this material. It
seemed impressive but irrelevant. They wanted to know a few sim-
ple things. Who were the stars? Who was writing the songs? Where
were the dances? When Ray explained he had a different kind of
film in mind, most concluded that it would not be a good risk. More
than thirty distributors said “no.” 4

In some cases the “no” was not absolute. At Aurora Film Cor-
poration, a forty-year-old company stemming from tent-show be-
ginnings, managing director Ajit Bose was fascinated by the ear-
nest visitor of towering physique with the vividly illustrated script.
Bose said that he believed in the script and that Aurora would fi-
nance the film. Of course a professional director would be selected
by Aurora to take charge. It was perhaps not an extraordinary stip-
ulation to make, in dealing with a young man without a single
screen credit. But to Ray the stipulation was out of the question.

Some gave him advice. They said his plans for location produc-
tion were not practical, that everything he had in mind could be
done better in a studio. In the Indian film world of 1952-53 virtu-
ally everything was done in a studio. The sort of thing Ray had in
mind seemed to many a reversion to silent film days. Studio tech-
nology, the film industry was convinced, could accomplish almost
any essential effect: On a few occasions Ray was goaded into pas-
sionate defense of his plans. Told that the rain scenes simply could
not be done in the rain but required a well-equipped studio, he
went into the monsoon rains with a 16-mm. Bolex for test se-
quences.

One day he found just the person he needed for the old aunt.
She was a toothless hag who had once been a handsome and popu-
lar stage actress. Her career had been ended long ago by menin-
gitis. Now permanently and painfully stooped, she lived from day
to day with the help of opium tablets. She would be glad to play
in the film, if 4; could mean the expensive tablets would keep com-
ing. In a wavery but insistent voice she asked Ray: “Can you pay
me twenty rupees a day?” Ray promised he would do so.

* Interview, Ray.

216

Having found her, he dared not delay the start of production. He
assembled his production team. From his advertising agency earn-
ings— substantial by Indian standards— every possible rupee began
to go into weekend and holiday shooting. He sold his art books and
phonograph records to help meet production costs. In a few months
almost Rs. 20,000 of personal funds had gone into production. The
film had hardly begun.

On the basis of the footage shot, a distributor now decided to risk
an investment. A distribution contract was signed. The sum of Rs.

20.000 was made available for a continuation of the shooting. Weeks
later the distributor looked at what had been done and changed his
mind. He backed out and the work ground to a halt.

At some time during these months of rising and falling fortunes,
the American director John Huston came to Calcutta, met with
members of the Calcutta Film Society, talked with Ray, and saw se-
quences of Father Panehali. His enthusiasm spurred new hope
and determination and also had other effects. John Huston men-
tioned the film to Monroe Wheeler of the Museum of Modern Art,
New York, who was in India planning an exhibit on the arts of In-
dia. Wheeler became interested.

About this time Ray, in desperation, approached the government
of the State of West Bengal lor funds for Pother Panehali. There
was no precedent for help from the state. But some state officials
knew of the interest of the New York museum official, and this may
have played a part in the final decLion, which as made at the
highest levels of state government. The film became a state project
under the aegis of its director of publicity. West Bengal put up Rs.

200.000 for the completion of the film. The state became its owner
and would, henceforth, call itself “producer” of the film, although
its participation was solely financial.

Production was resumed in earnest. But because Ray was still
working for the Keymer agency, progress was slow.

In 1954, when the film was nearly finished after two years of work,
an invitation came to have the film premiered at the Museum of
Modern Art, New York, on the occasion of its Indian exhibit. The
deadline necessitated a supreme effort to bring the film to a finish.
Days and nights of intensive editing followed. Ravi Shankar com-

217

pleted his brilliant musical score in a matter of hours. There was
a series of all-night recording and mixing sessions. Reels were
rushed to and from laboratories. When Satyajit Ray finally took
his package of film cans to the Calcutta air-freight office of Pan-
American, and stood at the counter awaiting his turn, he fell asleep
leaning on his package.

The world premiere at the Museum of Modern Art had some
long-range results. Edward Harrison, who had scored successes in
the distribution of Japanese films in the United States, was not
present at the showing but, hearing about the film, arranged for a
private screening a few days later. This led to eventual American
distribution by Harrison not only of Father Panchali but also of
later Satyajit Ray films. The groundwork for this development was
actually laid before Indian distribution had begun.

The State of West Bengal, as owner of the film, meanwhile en-
trusted its Indian distribution to Aurora Films, which thus once
more came into contact with the young man with the script. The
film, which was in the Bengali language, opened early in 1956
at three Calcutta theatres simultaneously. It started slowly, at
first puzzling many patrons. Then it took hold, began to draw
crowded theatres, and ran thirteen weeks. In the Bengali home mar-
ket Ray had scored a substantial success. In the rural areas of West
Bengal the film was likewise successful, but on a smaller scale. It
stayed two weeks at many smaller theatres.

It must be remembered that after the India-Pakistan partition a
Bengali film could be understood by less than 10 percent of the peo-
ple of India. In India a Bengali film, even a hit film, had a normal
theatrical distribution in West Bengal only. After that its Indian
career was practically over. It might have some Pakistan distribu-
tion, but this market was becoming progressively more restricted
and less profitable. Within India a Bengali film of unusual interest
might also have special “Sunday morning showings M at theatres in
New Delhi, Bombay, or Madras, for small Bengali-speaking colo-
nies in those* ..metropolitan centers. Such showings had prestige
value but yielded little income. Dubbings into other Indian lan-
guages were almost never made. Extraordinary success might lead
to the making of new versions in other Indian languages, but

218

Pather Panchali was so completely of Bengal that such action
seemed implausible in this case. Subtitled versions were not gener-
ally considered practical, in view of limited Indian literacy.

Thus successful exposure to the Bengali-speaking people of In-
dia would normally have ended the career of Pather Panchali,
even within India. The rest of India might not even have become
aware of it or of Satyajit Ray, had it not been for the Cannes festi-
val.

At Cannes the West Bengal entry, directed by an unknown, was
at first not taken seriously by the festival management. At one phase
of the program planning it was assigned to a morning showing,
which would mean that only a handful of people would see it,
while some of the jurors still rested in bed. The “important” films
were supposed to come in the late afternoons or evenings. But a
handful of people in Cannes— they included Edward Harrison and
several others— had seen Pather Panchali and regarded it as “im-
portant.” After crucial backstage struggles Pather Panchali was re-
scheduled for an afternoon showing immediately after a film by the
Japanese director Kurosawa. But the Japanese delegation had ar-
ranged a large party after the Kurosawa film and some of the judges
adjourned for this important social occasion. Next day the French
critic Andre Bazin journalistically protested these events as “the
scandal” of the festival and his protests led to a rescreening of
Pather Panchali. Finally assembled, the judges were astonished at
the Indian film and voted it the “Lest human d- ument” of the
festival. Thus began a sequence of awards whic*. was to make
Pather Panchali known on every continent, placing Ray almost at
once among the great directors of the world and launching an ex-
traordinary succession of Ray films including Aparajito (The Un-
vanquished), 1957; Jelsaghar (The Music Room), 1958; Par -
ashpatar (The Touchstone), 1958; A pur Sansar (The World of
Apu), 1959; Devi (Goddess), 1900; Teen Kaivya (Three Daughters),
1961; Rabindranath Tagore (Rabindranath Tagore), 1961; Kan -
chanjanga (Kanchanjanga), 1902; Abhijan (Expedition). <962.

Except for the multilanguage doc .mentary Rabindranath Ta-
gore, all these films would be Bcngali-language films, so that only
Bengalis would experience them in their native tongue. Although

219

the name of Ray would become widely known in India as a result
of his international fame, his films would tragically remain a closed
book to millions speaking only Hindi, Telugu, Tamil, Marathi,
Gujarati, Kannada, Malayalam, Assamese, Oriya, Kashmiri, and
other languages. After some years the fame of Ray would lead to
evening theatrical showings of several of his films in New Delhi,
Bombay, and Madras, mainly in the form of “trilogy festivals" or
“Satyajit Ray festivals." But being in effect foreign-language events,
these would attract a somewhat specialized following, comparable to
art-theatre audiences elsewhere. In Bombay Pather Panchali would
be run with Hindi subtitles and Apur Sansar with English subtitles—
among the comparatively rare uses of this technique in India. But by
and large Satyajit Ray would remain a Bengali film maker. In one
sense this would be a limitation; in another, the key to his growing
stature.

From the success of Pather Panchali in the Bengali film markets
of India the West Bengal government earned back twice its Rs.
200,000 investment. Meanwhile it also received, during the first five
years after release of the film, the following sums from foreign dis-
tribution:

United States

Rs. 251,250

China, People’s Republic

40,000

Germany, France, Austria

25,000

United Kingdom

18,642

Poland

15,337

Thailand

11,880

Ceylon

6,612

Iran and Persian Gulf

6,500

Mexico

2,700

Netherlands

1,006

Total

Rs. 376,907

Along with receipts from Indian distribution, the state's income
had thus reached, in these years, a total of about Rs. 800,000. And
earnings were continuing. 5

There are several astonishing elements in the success, financial
and artistic, of Pather Panchali . Satyajit Ray, directing his first film,

5 Interview and correspondence, P. S. Mathur.

220

had decided not to use any of the established cameramen of the
Indian film industry. Feeling that all were too saturated in pic-
torial formulas of the industry, he had gone instead to a much-ad-
mired still photographer, Subrata Mitra, and invited him to shoot
his first motion picture. Father Panchali was thus written, directed,
and photographed by “newcomers/’

Comparable to the selection of Mitra was that of Ravi Shankar,
who composed and played the score. He w r as a musician of enor-
mous celebrity, but not associated with “film music.” Among the
members of the cast, those with acting experience included the old
aunt, the father, the rich lady next door, and the schoolteacher.
Most of the performers were without professional experience.

A certain number of technicians with film backgrounds were en-
listed in the enterprise. These included the film editor and the art
director. The latter played a crucial role. Although outdoor scenes
W'crc shot at locations a do/en miles from Calcutta, much of the in-
door work was finally done in a Calcutta studio, and sets for this
were designed and built to match location structures. In using this
procedure, Ray had to sonic extent adjusted his original plans, but
without compromise to results. No hint of “studio quality,” in
scenic texture or lighting, was permitted.

The group worked with relatively simple means but with great
technical resourcefulness. To avoid “slick” light ellecls they relied
mainly on “bounce lighting,” with the light directed at one enor-
mous relict tor. Ray has continued to lavor this tech ique.

A memorable sequence of Pat her Panchali showed the young girl,
Durga, running through the woods Keeping he'' in close-up, sharply
in focus, the camera appeals to move along beside her throughout
the sequence. The ellcct would normally be gained by a trucking
shot in which a camera moves on a track parallel to the running
girl. No such equipment was available to the gioup. in actuality
the sequence was shot b) a stationary camera. The girl ran through
the woods in an exact circle around this camera, which panned to
follow her, using a telephoto lens. To ensure perfet t focus, her
course through the woods had been .aid out by measurements with
a piece of string from the camera position. The course ended where
it began. No trucking shot could have been more precise in effect.

221

Most of Pather Panchali was postsynchronized; dialogue recorded
on location was not actually used except as a guide in the recording
of the final sound track, made under controlled acoustical condi-
tions. Ray here followed the method of the Italian neorealists.

Satyajit Ray's prominent use of artists and technicians who were
newcomers, at least to film, represented in some respects a repudia-
tion of the Indian film industry and its prevailing tenets. The long
failure of Indian films to win recognition in Western markets had
generally been ascribed by industry leaders to insufficiency of tech-
nical resources. Occasionally they had journeyed to Hollywood in
search of “know-how.” They came back in awe of equipment they
had seen. They duplicated Hollywood technical devices as best
they could. If they only had greater resources, what they could not
do! When finally an Indian won success on Western screens, it was
achieved not by lavish equipment or vast resources. Though the
makers of the success had a proper respect for technical precision,
their victory had been won by something else: primarily, by integ-
rity in the handling of content.

Not surprisingly, the victories of Ray aroused mixed feelings in
various quarters, both in film industry and in government. The in-
dustry hailed the Satyajit Ray successes. But an undercurrent of
pique was evident, especially in Bombay and Madras. In these cen-
ters it became customary to say that Ray’s films were of course splen-
did “artistically,” 'but that Bombay films— or Madras films— were
better “technically.” Evidence that Ray’s films are considered, in
Europe and America, superb on both technical and artistic grounds
has not seemed especially welcome. There has of course also been
a feeling of discomfiture about the successes of a project rejected
by numerous private financiers and eventually financed by a state
government.

In the central government official jubilation also had, from the
beginning, some contrary undercurrents. There was of course de-
light that Ray had “put India on the international film map.” He
received a presidential award and other honors. But the success of
Pather Panchali demonstrated to some the shortsightedness of cen-
tral government policies toward film. In 1954, after three years of

222

silence, the government had put aside the idea of a Film Finance
Corporation, as recommended by the Film Enquiry Committee. The
central government considered the plan impractical for financial
reasons. Now a state government had, in startling fashion, dram-
atized the arguments that had been advanced for the idea. It had
shown that an alternative source of capital, controlled by a different
set of values, could indeed liberate a film maker from success formu-
las dominating an industry. The state had even demonstrated that
such government use of capital need not necessarily result in loss
but might yield profit. It is not surprising that the central govern-
ment now changed its mind about the feasibility of the idea. In
1957 the Ministry of Information and Broadcasting announced, al-
most as though it were a new idea, the government intention “to set
up a Film Finance Corporation for the purpose of rendering as-
sistance to film producers by way of loans." 0 Parliamentary ap-
proval was given in 1959 and the agency finally began operation in
I960, eigM yeais after the recommendation of the Film Enquiry
Committee— and thirty-two years after a similar recommendation of
the Indian Cinematograph Committee. The West Bengal success
appears to have had a part in spurring the action.

While the central government officially rejoiced over the success
of Father Panchali, some highly placed officials appear to have
frowned on the film and especially its distribution abroad. The ob-
jection was that it pictured India in terms of poverty and that
this damaged India’s international image. Th. opinion never
achieved the upper hand in decisions relating to * at her Panchali,
but the persistence of the attitude was evident in various develop-
ments. In September of 1956 the magazine Filmindia reported:

The Go\ eminent of India h.is directed that before any State Government
sends fib ns— features or documentaries— abroad for exhibition, the State
Government should asceitain the film’s suitability from the point of view
of external publicity by the External \ Hairs.

Recently a State Government made direct arrangements for showing its
film abroad with a foreign distributor, by-passing the External Publicity Di-
vision . 7

a Report . 1 056- 57, p. ‘Hi. 7 Filmindia, September, 1956.

223

The BMP A Journal offered additional information:

It has been pointed out that in a recent case a film production was sent
abroad under direct arrangement between the State Government and a
foreign distributor or exhibitor. The report on its exhibition received from
the Indian Mission commented on its unsuitability from the point of view
of external publicity . 8 9

Government spokesmen have not confirmed that these actions re-
lated to Pather Panchali but have not identified the film involved.

In 1959 the Central Board of Film Censors announced additions
to its list of material that might lead to censorship action. The
additions included “abject or disgusting poverty.” Industry spokes-
men denounced this new “fetter on the freedom of the creative art
of film production.” 0 Again government spokesmen did not identify
the film or films precipitating the regulation. To any admirer of
Pather Panchali or its sequels it is inconceivable that any one
should think in such terms of films so rich in warmth, humanity,
and humor, yet it appears that some in the central government did
regard the films in this light.

One can perhaps dismiss such aberrations, for the more impor-
tant fact is that Satyajit Ray, with Pather Panchali, scored resound-
ing victories of many kinds. Internationally he had won for the
Indian film an assured place. Those attending international film fes-
tivals on all continents would begin to look for Indian entries, and
the subsequent films of Satyajit Ray himself more than justified
the interest. The awards won by Ray during the lale 1950s and
early 1960s kept him constantly in the international limelight, to a
degree rivaled only by Ingmar Bergman of Sweden. In film histo-
ries, paragraphs on India began to expand into pages.

On the Indian home front, the Ray success set in motion changes
of large potential, although results would be difficult to assess for
some years to come. Such a development was the entry of the cen-
tral government into film finance, a step which could presumably
lead in various directions.

Meanwhile tjie state-financed Pather Panchali had already had
some impact on the private-sector film industry. Though cstab-

8 BMPA Journal, August, 1956.

9 Annual Report , 1959-60 (South Indian Film Chamber of Commerce), p. 2.

224

lished formulas held iheir own, some film makers began to find
investors, distributors, and exhibitors a shade less unwilling to at-
tempt the unfamiliar. In this respect Calcutta led the way-not sur-
prisingly, since it most surely needed to face the necessities of
change. Here the change gave an opportunity for the rise of sev-
eral new directors of promise. Amonp- these was Asit Sen, a young
commercial photographer whose first feature, Chalalal (Movement),
appeared a year after Pathrr Panchnli. Financed by its participants,
it was completed for Rs. 70,000 without stars and without songs,
and was successful enough to win him bat king for a number of
subsequent films. Another was Tapan Sinha, product of the Calcutta
Film Society, whose Knbuliwala (The Merchant from Kabul), re-
leased in 1956, and Kudita Pa\an (The Hungry Stones), released in
1960, were both based on Tagore stones. Both won substantial suc-
cesses, as did his Hamuli Bunker Vpakatha (Folk Talcs of the River
Bend), released in 1962. Another was Rajen Taraldar, whose film
Ganga (Changes), a story of ii\er fishermen made on location, was
show r n at the 1961 Venice film festival and was praised by Variety
for its “robust approach to reality.” 10 Its production and distribu-
tion would have been unlikely a lew' )ears earlier.

Toward Ray himself, the shift in industry attitude w r as evident.
Backers who hacl shied at a Satyajit Ray Pat her Panchnli were
ready to finance subsequent films. Aurora Filins, which had ex-
pressed readiness to finance Pat her Panehali in accordance with its
own dictates, w r as willing to finan^ its sequel iparajito, under
Ray's direction and control. A vaiiety of private lackers provided
finance for later feature films.

Nothing in Pother Panchnli or in Apmajito had quite prepared
the film world for the variety of genres that would be represented
in the features that followed. These first two films had led to ex-
pectation of others in a similar vein. The repo v,o d determination
of Ray to continue work in Bengal, drawing on its liie and culture,
strengthened this expectation. But even while continuing to ex-
plore his native region, Ray has demonstrated a rich diversity of
moods, techniques, approaches, and iterests. In this respect he has
followed in the steps of his father and grandfather, and has also
reminded us of his teacher, Tagore.

10 Variety , September 13, 1961.

225

After making Aparajito and before starting Apur Sansar, the film
that was to complete a trilogy on the family introduced in Father
Panchali, Ray made two other films, Jelsaghar (The Music Room)
and Parashpatar (The Touchstone), both released in 1958. The first
of these was in some respects a disappointment to Ray himself, yet
was moderately successful in Bengal. It won an award for its music
at the Moscow film festival. The next, Parashpatar , represented a
complete change of mood. It was comedy-fantasy in an almost slap-
stick, satirical vein. Utterly delightful to its admirers, it was fairly
well received in Calcutta but apparently baffled rural Bengal au-
diences. Its humor has been considered untranslatable and largely
incomprehensible to anyone but a sophisticated Bengali. It has
therefore had almost no showings outside West Bengal. It has ap-
parently been the only Satyajit Ray film to represent a clear loss to
its backers. This film was followed by Apur Sansar (The World of
Apu), released in 1959 and completing the trilogy. It was extremely
successful in Calcutta and throughout Bengal, and was the first
Ray film to have a regular theatrical run in Bombay— with Eng-
lish subtitles.

Its place in the trilogy is curious. The films Father Panchali and
Aparajito were based on the massive Banerji book, but Apur Sansar
was not. Although it followed threads of plot suggested by the novel,
the story of the third film was largely invented by Ray. After com-
pleting Aparajito he felt unsatisfied to leave the characters, and the
idea of a third film lurked in his mind. At the Venice film festival of
1957, when Aparajito was awarded the grand prize— Golden Lion
of St. Mark— Ray found himself announcing a third film to follow.
Having thus committed himself, he began to work intently on the
idea and the film script rapidly took shape.

Apur Sansar was in many respects a turning point for Ray. In In-
dia Aparajito had had an extremely shaky debut. Less well received
in Bengal than Pather Panchali, it had cast doubts on Ray’s future.
In a sense the Venice award rescued the film from what had seemed
to be failure. ^But Apsur Sansar proved an immediate, substantial
box-office draw, exceeding Pather Panchali, and put Ray on new,
solid footing. It also gave him confidence to rely on later occasions
on material of his own.

226

to the general progress of the film, Ray has the full script in his
hands the first day he arrives on the sets/' She found Ray “very sure
and definite about his work." 13

With Abhijan Ray completed ten years of work as a film maker.
He was already assured of a place in world film annals. But his fu-
ture role in the film world of India confronted him with many prob-
lems, closely related to the problems ol die Calcutta industry.

In January, 19f>2, came the news that Pakistan, in response to rec-
ommendations of a film investigation committee of its own, had
decided to ban import of films “in any Indian or Pakistani lan-
guages, with or without a sound track, and all films depicting In-
dian or Pakistani way of living, either silent or dubbed." 14 The
exclusion, decreed for a five-year period, put an end to an import
that had already dwindled to a trickle. The film maker of Calcutta,
producing in his native Bengali, now knew he must reconcile him-
self for the foreseeable future to a primary market consisting of
less than iu percent of the Indian people. II this was to be his sus-
tenance, lie and the Calcutta industry would live on the edge of
destitution. The economics of the situation were summarized by
Satyajit Ray in these terms: 11 a Bengali film costs more than Rs.
150,000, in nine cases out of ten it will not get its money back. “A
Hindi film can a fiord to spend six times as much and reasonably ex-
pect to make a profit." 15

Based on a shrunken market, could the Calcutta industry sur-
vive as a major factor in Indian Fhn products ». J Physically its fa-
cilities already presented a shabby picture in cc nparison to those
of Bombay and Madras. Madras, most recently risen to eminence as
a film center, was becoming especially noted for its modern, effi-
cient, well-kept studios and laboratories. In Calcutta, meanwhile,
“studios remain only partially equipped, laboratory work continues
to be erratic, and a general air of privation invades all depart-
ments of production." 10

Cine Advance, Ma> .‘11, 10(52.
u Severn, January 2fi. 1!H>2.

’“Ray, "Pioblnus of a Bengal Film Makci," in International Film Annual, No.
2. p. SO.

" Ibid., p. 51.

233

To survive, Calcutta must clearly reach other markets. For the
individual film maker this might mean a new effort to produce dou-
ble versions of the sort that had once won India-wide fame, as well
as prosperity, for New Theatres Ltd. Satyajit Ray's Abhijan hinted
he might pursue this possibility. But he would do so carefully, de-
termined to make films as he knew he must, and not as alleged
market considerations dictated.

But beyond the Hindi market was the world market. After Satya-
jit Ray, Indian producers, whether in Calcutta, Bombay, or Madras,
could hardly help being conscious of it. Pathcr Panchali had hinted
at the possibilities and by no means exhausted them. Analysis of
foreign market potentialities became a popular occupation among
producers— and not only among producers. Government officials,
acutely concerned with foreign-exchange earnings and balances,
began increasingly to think of the motion picture as an important
commodity in the foreign-exchange struggle. Indian films had long
had modest foreign markets in South Asia and in East and South
Africa. In the independence era they had penetrated, occasionally
with substantial success, into other markets including the Soviet
Union. Now came the dream of dollar earnings in the United States
and increased sterling balances in western Europe. The formation
in 1958 of a government-industry Export Promotion Committee and
proposals for an aggressive Export Promotion Council had impel-
ling reasons behind them, related to the financial problems not only
of film producers but of India.

In 1958 Satyajit Ray, working in Calcutta in. the “general air of
privation," wrote of the world market:

As for the audience abroad, they seem the likeliest to solve the financial
problem, but our approach must be cautious and honest. There is no rea-
son why we should not cash in on the foreigner's curiosity about the
Orient. But this must not mean pandering to their love of the false-exotic.
A great many notions about our country and our people have to be dis-
pelled, even though it may be easier and— from a film point of view— more
paying to sustain existing myths than to demolish them . 17

Some observers have been puzzled that Satyajit Ray, who could
work as a film maker anywhere in the world, should continue to

17 Ibid., p. 58.

234

Roberto Rossellini arrived in India in 1956 with fanfare and
was duly garlanded at airports. He was received by Prime Minis-
ter Nehru and accompanied him on an airplane trip to inspect a
dam site, a huge new hydroelectric project. On the way Rossellini
explained to the Prime Minister his plans for a film to be called
India ’57. It would include a dozen or so short tales, vignettes of
the new India, changing yet eternal. One such vignette, for exam-
ple, would deal with a worker on a new dam, such as they were
going to inspect. Through such individual tales, audiences would
glimpse the meaning of the present moment in the story of India.
Rossellini had already synopsi/ed a number of episodes of the sort
he had in mind. They were to be filmed in various parts of India,
suggesting its rich diversity as well as its essential unity. Before the
end of the trip, Prime Minister Nehru was fully involved in the
plan. He had suggestions, which Rossellini promptly incorporated
in the project. In the following weeks Rossellini was put in touch
with uie Ministry of Information and Broadcasting, as well as other
ministries that would be helpful. A contract was drawn up under
which the Indian government became a partner in the production.
For some time the details of the contract were not made public.
More than a year later, in December, 1957, in answer to questions
from a member of the Lok Sabha, the essential facts were made
known and the extent of government involvement revealed. The
agreement had provided that Rossellini would make India ’ 57 under
Indian government sponsorship. The film wouh* be in color, 10, GOO-
12, 000 feet in length. While on location in var • js parts of India,
Rossellini would also make twchc short color documentaries for
Films Division distribution. The Indian government would make
available to Rossellini special assistants and technical staff from
the Films Division. It would also make Films Division equipment
and facilities available to him. It would facilitate location arrange-
ments. It would bear all travel expenses by rail within India and
provide an additional Rs. 77,000 toward other expenses. Distribu-
tion rights for Italy and France would belong to Rossellini; all
other rights would belong lo the gi ^rnment of India.-'

** Lok Sabha Debates, December 18, 1957.

239

The government assigned to Rossellini one of the most able of
Films Division producers, M. V. Krishnaswamy. It was a logical
choice. M. V. Krishnaswamy had served an apprenticeship with
John Grierson in England and had subsequently studied in Rome at
the Centro Sperimentale Cinematografia, Italian governmental
academy for instruction in the film arts. During this period he had
also, on the recommendation of Grierson, had a chance to work with
Rossellini. M. V. Krishnaswamy was thus ideally equipped to serve
as intermediary between Rossellini and those in India who could
be of help to the project. Inevitably, Krishnaswamy put Rossellini
in touch with Hari Das Gupta, highly respected Calcutta documen-
tarian, friend of Satyajit Ray, and assistant to Renoir on The
River . A close association with Das Gupta quickly developed.

Work was started on several of the India '57 vignettes. The first
to be completed was the story that used as its background the hydro-
electric project. Those in India who saw the completed vignette
were enthusiastic, feeling it ranked with the best of Rossellini's
work. Intensive work was started on a vignette dealing with a
mahout, an elephant boy. Shooting was also begun for a story about
monkeys. Meanwhile disturbing news began to appear in papers
throughout the world including, somewhat circumspectly, papers in
India. Rossellini had become interested in Sunalina Das Gupta,
wife of Hari Das Gupta. According to reports, she had left home for
the Bombay hotel in which Rossellini was staying. Both were ru-
mored to be planning divorces and marriage to each other.

The news, sensationally featured in many countries, caused con-
sternation in Indian government circles. The government’s han-
dling of the situation was simple. Rossellini's visa expired. Its re-
newal, regarded as a routine matter, did not take place. Rossellini,
outraged by the low-level rebuff, tried to get in touch with Mr.
Nehru. The Prime Minister was not available. 24 Work on India '57
halted. Rossellini packed up and left India. No part of India '57 has
been publicly shown in India. Thus ended a government venture in
feature production. Questions in the Lok Sabha, months after the
departure of Rossellini, revealed that Rs. 84,218 had already been

“ Morning News , May 5, 1957.

240

expended by the central government. 25 Nothing further was heard
of the documentaries. The debacle occasioned discreet satisfaction
in industry circles, which resented the underwriting of foreign tal-
ent on a scale more respectable than was generally considered
proper for Indian talent.

In 1954, when an Indian delegation that included Raj Kapoor,
K. A. Abbas, Bimal Roy, Nargis, and others was in Moscow, and
Awara was being launched on its extraordinary Russian career,
there was the inevitable talk about co-production. The idea was
splendid, the Soviet Minister of Culture indicated, if the right story
could be found— of interest equally to Russians and Indians. Abbas
promptly pro] rosed one. It was an historic incident which he had
been told (he previous evening by a Russian novelist concerning
one Afanasi Nikitin, who had visited India in the fifteenth century,
several decades before Vasco da Gama. He had lclt a journal
throwing light on the Russia and India of the time. Abbas pro-
posed thaf an Indian-Russian co-production be based on the jour-
ney of Nikitin. This journey had had no “historic” consequences. It
had produced no trading post, colony, 01 military base. This was
precisely the attraction ol the story. Decades before the Portuguese
advance of empire into India, long before the expeditions and
settlements of the British, French, and Dutch, a Russian had visited
India, made friends— and gone home again This was the story
Abbas proposed. It at once received a tentative f issian approval,
and arrangements were made for Abbas and a Rus an screenwriter,
Maria Smirnova, to collaborate on a treatment. This collaboration
set the stage lor a long sequence ol intricate diplomacy, extraordi-
nary for its observance ol protocol, that eventually resulted in the
film Pn rdcsi (The Traveler), distributed in the Soviet Union un-
der the title Khazdnu Za Tu Morya (Journey Across Three Seas).

The writing of the script and the negotiation ol production ar-
rangements consumed almost two years. A contract was signed— be-
tween two parties of extremely unequal magnitude. 7 he party of
the first part was Mosfilm, a major • *iit ol Soviet film production,

*' 3 I.ok Sab ha Debates, December 18, 1957

241

with magnificent studios and facilities in Moscow; the party of the
second part was Naya Sansar International, as Abbas now called his
own production unit, which like hundreds of such units in India
had a post office address but no studio, no laboratory, and very little
by way of bank account. In spite of the inequality, every detail of
contract and procedure asserted their parity.

It was agreed that the film would be directed by two co-directors:
Abbas for Naya Sansar and V. M. Pronin for Mosfilm. Russian ac-
tors would act in Russian; some of their dialogue would later, for
the Indian version, be dubbed into Hindi. Indian actors would act
in Hindi; some of their dialogue would later, for the Russian ver-
sion, be dubbed into Russian. The Russian director would direct
the Russian actors and would rely on the Indian director for criti-
cism and suggestions. The Indian director would direct the Indian
actors and would look to the Russian director for criticism and sug-
gestions. The production schedule called for approximately four
months of shooting in India and four months of work in the Soviet
Union. It was agreed that expenses in India would be born by
Naya Sansar and expenses in the Soviet Union by Mosfilm. Most of
the shooting would necessarily be done in India. However, all dub-
bing, and the recording of the film score, would be done in the So-
viet Union. Mosfilm would also supply all raw stock and laboratory
work. The Soviet Union decided to make its version in wide screen,
not yet established ip India. Therefore three satisfactory takes would
have to be made of each shot: a wide-screen take for the Soviet Un-
ion; a standard take for India; a third as a safety reserve. Each party
would edit its own version; thus the arrangement allowed the Rus-
sian and Indian versions to differ. Naya Sansar was to get all dis-
tribution rights for India and the traditional Indian overseas mar-
kets in Asia and Africa. The Soviet Union would have distribution
rights within its borders and in other socialist countries. The Soviet
Union would also handle distribution in western Europe and the
Americas but Naya Sansar would share in this revenue.

Studio shooting began in a Bombay studio in October, 1956, with
a scene of the Prussian Afanasi meeting an Indian girl in a ruined
temple. Both directors were in action. Director V. M. Pronin wanted

242

to have rehearsals before shooting. Director Abbas felt obliged to
point out that this was not customary in India, at least not for im-
portant stars, who were much too busy, going from production to
production. An international crisis was avoided when the Indian
stars volunteered to rehearse. Then directors Pronin and Abbas si-
multaneously shouted: “Camera!” The production was under way.

But Abbas meanwhile had to solve a crisis of his own. Naya Sansar
faced weeks of location expenses in India, and would normally
meet these by securing an advance from a distributor. Indian dis-
tributors were much interested in the international venture but
there was a stumbling block. Payment of an advance by a dis-
tributor usually involved transfer of the negative as security. The
negative, however, was accumulating in a Moscow laboratory.

Abbas was fortunately able to discuss his problem with Prime
Minister Nehru, who at once called the matter sympathetically to
the attention of the Ministry of Information and Broadcasting and
the Ministry of Finance. Since the project involved no expenditure
of foreign reserves but created likelihood of foreign earnings, it
was of interest to the government, quite aside from its intercultural
values. In a move without precedent, the Finance Ministry made a
loan of Rs. 200,000 to Naya Sansar, at 4 percent interest per an-
num. 26 Nine months later Naya Sansar was able to repay it.

The loan made it possible for Abbas to meet location expenses
and then to fly a group of thirty Indian artists to Moscow. These in-
cluded eight musicians, who in the Anal score wc i accompanied by
100 Russian musicians. In Moscow the postsynch. onizing for both
Russian and Hindi versions was done by girl technicians who knew
no word of Hindi. The Indians were astounded at their skill and
precision. Although dialogue was translated, the six songs were left
in Hindi in both versions.

Mosfilm is said to have made GOO piints of Po^desir 1 a measure
of its satisfaction with the project. In India the film, released in

"The details of the Abbas loan, as of the Rossellini contract became public
through the parliamentary question pc *d. Lok Sabha Dcuuies, November
22, 1957.

27 Interview, Abbas.

243

1957, more than recouped its cost but drew mixed comment. The
producers had used as backgrounds various centuries-old structures
available in India. There was no objection to this except that they
had sometimes used them, in the film, in locations different from
their actual locations. An old temple used as a west-coast temple
was recognized as in actuality an east-coast temple. The producers
were denounced for this affront to authenticity. Such objections
may have concealed others less freely expressed, such as political ob-
jections. Also, without doubt, the story gave nationalist satisfaction
to Russians more substantially than to Indians. The Russian film-
goer could identify himself with a bearded hero who, centuries
ago, made an extraordinary journey. While the film called atten-
tion to the splendors already achieved by India at that time, the
principal Indian role in the story was to provide women who fell
in love with, or were loved by, the bearded blond hero. Despite ob-
jections, expressed and unexpressed, Pardcsi presented impressive
spectacle, and was in itself an achievement in diplomacy.

It was in 1961 that Twentieth Century-Fox, with Nine Hours to
Rama , at last proceeded with long-rumored plans for production
in India, using Indian backgrounds and artists along with Western
artists and technicians. It was not surprising that the company
should undertake such a venture. Indian government policy had
made it almost inevitable.

It will be recalled that since the First World War the leading
American film companies had dominated the foreign film field in
India. Most had had offices in India since the 1920s or early 1930s. 28
After independence Indian policy had favored “established im-
porters/' which tended to protect the position of the American com-
panies vis-a-vis importers of other countries. However, India also
began in various ways to restrict the profits of importation.

One kind of restriction limited the amount of footage that could

“The Kincmatograph Renters’ Society Ltd., which represents the American com-
panies in India, gives the following dates: Universal, previously represented by
various agents, opened its office in 1927; Metro-Goldwyn-Maycr, 1929; Para-
mount, 1930; Fox (later Twentieth Century-Fox), 1931; Warner Brothers, pre-
viously represented by Madan, 1933; the interests of United Artists have been rep-
resented by Twentieth Century-fox. Interview, Golc.

244

be imported. A general import-control rule allowed established im-
porters to bring into India, during a year, 10 percent of what they
had imported in their best year. However, this could be modified by
special agreements. In the case of the American companies a spe-
cial 27-month agreement, effective January, 1958, was concluded
between the Indian government and the Motion Picture Export
Association of America; it was followed by a second agreement,
which took effect in April, I960. Under the first of these agreements
each of the American companies established in India could bring
in annually 75 percent of the footage imported in its best year; un-
der the second agreement, 55 percent.

But there was another restriction, of more decisive impact. In
the early days of independence the companies could remit to the
United States virtually all icvenue earned in India. The Report of
the Film Enquiry Committee , describing the situation in 1951,
stated that distributors of foreign films could “remit up to 70 percent
of the gross revenue collected/- 0 But when Indian finances took a
turn for the worse, remissions were sharply curtailed. The 1958
agreement provided that the American companies could remit only
1 21/2 percent of net receipts. The 1960 agreement provided that they
could remit only such amounts of their receipts “as is determined
by the Indian government." 30

The result of the agreements was that American companies
could continue substantial importations but that earnings accumu-
lated in blocked rupee accounts, usable only ir *• dia. By Decem-
ber, 1960, Twentieth Century-Fox Corp. (India) Pi ate Ltd., had in
the name of its United States affiliate an account of Rs. 1,610,159 31
This fund was presumably available to finance location costs for
Ni Ji c Hon rs t o R a m a .

Based on the Stanley Wolpeit novel, Nine Homs to Rama went
before the cameras late in 1961 as a Red Lion Films production for
Twentieth Century-Fox, directed by Mark Robson. A number of
Western performers, as well as technicians, came to India for the

20 Report of the Film Enquiry Committee, p '^5.

80 Motion Pictures Abroad : India , p. 4.

31 Files, Registrar of Companies, Bombay.

245

production. Several prominent Indian actors were also engaged. The
story touched on the final hours of the life of Gandhi.

The film was not intended as a "co-production"; Twentieth Cen-
tury-Fox certainly meant it to be made, in so far as might be pos-
sible, on a "nongovernment basis." But the Indian government
soon became deeply involved. A foreign venture of this sort re-
quired various clearances. Besides, the producers wanted to use
public locations, and portray military personnel including members
of the president's bodyguard. Before long the film script had
been reviewed by three ministries: the Ministry of Information and
Broadcasting, the Ministry of Home Affairs, and the Ministry of
External Affairs. Some objections were made; Red Lion Films sub-
mitted a revised script which took care of these. The producer was
then notified by the government that it "had no objection" to the
making of the film in India. Director Robson had reason to believe
he would now have clear sailing. He began staging and filming
mammoth crowd scenes in the streets of Delhi. At this time a press
campaign descended on Nine Hoars to Rama.

It will be recalled that K. A. Abbas, architect of the Indian-So-
viet Pardesi, was throughout his career a journalist as well as a film
maker. In the 1940s, after brief tenure as Bombay Chronicle film
critic, he had become writer of a weekly column occupying its final
page, titled "Last Page." In 1948 he had transferred "Last Page" to
the lively Blitz, which, according to an analysis in Far Eastern
Survey, is "well edited and specializes in sensational stories (not
necessarily veracious) about Government. ... It is bitterly opposed
to America and is to some extent pro-Soviet, although the evidence
does not indicate that its editor and proprietors are believers in
Communist ideals." 32

As Nine Hours to Rama began its location work, Abbas started a
fusillade of questions addressed not only to its American director,
whom he called "Mark ( Peyton Place) Robson," but also to the
government agencies involved, whom he called "accessories to the
crime." Other writers, in various publications, joined the attack.

** Mani, “The Indian Press Today,” lar Eastern Survey, July 2, 1952.

246

It appeared that these government agencies had been unaware of,
or uninterested in, questions of casting. In reviewing the script,
their concern had been to make certain the Gandhi scenes were
written with respect. It now appeared that the most glamorous of
the visiting Western stars, screen idol Horst Buchholz, would be
playing the assassin of Gandhi, Nathuram Godse. Did director
Mark ( Peyton Place) Robson mean to make a hero out of the un-
speakable Godse? Did the American “friends of Godse” propose to
add insult to injury by committing a “second assassination of
Gandhi" on Indian soil? A correspondent for the London Daily
Mail , interviewing Robson, found him ready to reply. Robson is
reported to have said: “Possibly there is a danger of making Godse
a hero, but this is a classic. Shakespeare explained why Brutus
killed Caesar, and not without sympathy.’’ 33

Did Robson consider himself another Bard of Avon? Did he
equate Gandhi with Caesar? As Robson completed his location se-
quences, the questions piled up. There had been talk of following
the Delhi location work with studio shooting in Bombay, at the
Mehboob studios. But on January 13 the unit left for London by a
night flight to complete the studio work there. If the unit had stayed
in India more than ninety days, it was explained, its members
would have had to pay Indian income taxes. The Bombay studio
plans had therefore been abandoned sonic time ago. But as Abbas
saw it, they had “preferred to leave India in the darkness of the
night, without answering our questions.” He d. refore turned the
questions to Dr. Kcskar, adding others.

Were any Indian cine technicians working with tuc Robson unit in any
responsible capacity, e.g., as cameraman, ^ound recordists, assistant direc-
tors, etc.? If not, why not? In no other country can a foreign film unit carry
on shooting without engaging local technicians— this is done not only
to safeguard the trade union rights of local workers bn* to protect national
interests being jeopardized by foreign film makers. Why is it not done in
India ? 34

“ Quoted in Blitz, January 20, 1962.

84 Abbas, "Last Page," Blitz, January 20, 1962.

247

Film associations chimed in with similar queries and demands.
The Federation of Western India Cine Employees forbade its mem-
bers to fly to England to complete the studio scenes until various
Western participants had been retroactively enrolled and dues paid.
The Indian Motion Picture Producers . .sscciation demanded that,
in the future, all rushes of foreign him ^ni* in India be scrutinized
by censors . 35

The Ministry of Information and Broadcasting, peppered with
criticism, was eventually goaded into a statement. The ministry's
“press note/' as reported in Screen , stated that the producers of
Nine Hours to Rama , after submitting their revised script, had in-
deed been “informed by the Government that it had no objection''
to the filming of the picture in India, “but this should not be taken
to mean that the script had in any way the Government’s ap-
proval.'' The ministry reassured the public that the Central Board
of Film Censors would, of course, examine the film before its re-
lease in India. The ministry also appeared to believe it would have
the opportunity to have revisions made before release of the film
elsewhere— a somewhat dubious assumption . 36

To understand the vitriolic tone of much of the argumentation
surrounding this film, we must perhaps look beyond the case itself.
Because “established importers” were favored in the granting of
film import licenses, Indian policy was often attacked as buttressing
the entrenched position of the American companies. This attack
came especially from those interested in promoting importation of
films from elsewhere. Abbas in his columns had sometimes attacked
obstacles that blocked exhibition of films of other lands. Besides the
difficulty of getting import licenses, there was the difficulty of secur-
ing bookings in theatres habitually showing American films. A few
such theatres were under long-term lease to American companies,
and two were owned by them. These circumstances, helping to pro-
tect the status quo for American interests, were favorite topics of in-
dignation. The case of “the American Godscs'' was, in a sense, an
opportunity tp attack this favorite target as well as another cherished
foe, the Ministry of Information and Broadcasting.

M Screen, January 26, 1962.

“ Ibid., February 2, 1962.

248

Besides film production in India, at least me other film use of
blocked accounts was available to the Ar jrican companies. Via
lump-sum purchases in blocked rupees, tl y could acquire Ameri-
can rights in Indian films. Their succesful distribution in the
United States would presumably convei. the assets into dollars.
Many in the Indian government and the film industry had hoped
the American companies would do this. Many wcie convinced the
American companies could do it— at a profit— if they wished to.
Some also felt the companies should do it as a matter of obligation,
in view of the large number of American films admitted into India.
But the companies have generally held that they have seen no In-
dian films they could profitably handle. 37 They have also pointed
out that they do not control the American market, that it is freely
competitive and open to any importer of Indian films without
quota restrictions. The failuie of the American companies to use
blocked funds for purchase of Indian films has been bitterly re-
sented by some Indian producers. The bitterness may well have
contributed to the tensions over Nine Hours to Rama.

Our brief accounts of hid in '57, Pardrsi , and Nine Hours to Rama
will suggest that international productions ofTcr a stormy way of
life. Each brewed its tempests. Yet lor reasons economic and politi-
cal, it seems certain such cross-cultural ventures will continue. In
the year 1959 alone, negotiations for numerous new ventures were
reported in the Indian press. They included a proposed Indo-Ger-
man production, 38 an Indo-Spanish product!-. 39 an Indo-Egyp-
tian production, 40 a new Indo-Soviet production an Indo-Ameri-
can production, 42 and even an Indo-Pakistan production. 43 As in
the case of past international productions, any such ventures are
certain to produce summit diplomacy.

87 Hcadquai Lei ed in Bombay, largely manned by Indian personnel from western
India, the India offices of the American companies were seal rely aware of the
rise of Satyajit Ray. Even if they had been aware of him. it is unlikely they
would have considered his films suitable for the American maikct, which they
naturally judge in terms ol the pioducts of the majoi American companies.

!W Hindu, August 31, 1959.

39 National Herald , September 13, 1959.

"Ibid., October 1 1, 1959. 41 Bharat Jyoti. July 19, 1959.

48 Indian A’x pres*, September 17, 1959.

43 National Herald , August M and November 22, 1959.

249

The internationalization of the film field, and the resultant deep-
ening involvement of government in it, has another aspect not yet
mentioned. This has to do with film export and its growth.

An Indian government memorandum of 1961, circulated in the
film industry, analyzed foreign markets long enjoyed by Indian
films as well as new markets apparently ready for development.
Some of the established markets were summarized as follows:

There are a hundred and one cinema theatres in British East and Cen-
tral Africa, a number of which exhibit Indian films. . . . There are about
forty theatres in Sudan, twenty of which exhibit Indian films. . . .
There are seven theatres in Aden, four of which exhibit Indian films fre-
quently. . . . There arc six theatres in Bahrain, two or three of which show
Indian films. . . . There are forty-seven theatres in Burma, thirty-four of
which show Indian films. . . . There arc twenty-eight theatres in Cambodia,
most of which are exhibiting or are willing to exhibit Indian films. . . .
Ceylon has two hundred and fifty theatres and Indian films are shown in
almost all. . . . There arc eight hundred and ninety-two cinema theatres in
Indonesia, most of which exhibit Indian films. . . . There are about thirty
theatres in Teheran, the capital of Iran, twenty of which exhibit Indian
films either regularly or occasionally. . . . There are about two hundred and
ten theatres in Singapore, the Federation of Malaya and British Borneo,
fifty of which exhibit Indian films. . . . There are about eighty-five theatres
in Thailand, a few of which are showing Indian films . 44

In addition, theatres in a score of countries in Europe and Amer-
ica had, since Indian independence, shown Indian films for the first
time. Among these were, of course, the United States and the Soviet
Union.

However, in a number of these markets, old and new, problems
were developing. The Soviet Union, after a number of years of
showing Indian films “without expecting that in return India will
purchase Soviet films/' was beginning to ask for reciprocal action. 4 "’
The governmental memorandum, Markets for Your Films, indi-
cated that the Soviet Union had agreed to “import from India films
equal in footage to that imported by India from the U.S.S.R." 46

tt

44 Market s for Your Films, pp. 1-7.

45 Cine Advance, September 22, 1961.

46 Markets for Your Films, p. 10.

250

The Soviet Union was thus putting on India a pressure similar to
that which India was trying to exert on American film interests.

Pressure of the same sort was coming from Indonesia. Here the
situation endangered a market in which India had for some time
held a leading position. The situation in Indonesia was described
in these terms by the 1950 Motion Picture Year Booh of Asia , pub-
lished in Japan:

With ever-increasing imports of Indian films posing a major threat to do-
mestic film makers, the Indonesian film industry, as a whole, continued
in 1955 to survive a major crisis. . . . With the exception of Indian films,
the average Indonesian picture grossed twice as much as the average im-
port. Virtually all the 80 imported Indian films racked up higher earnings
than domestic releases. Roughly 80 films were produced by the dozen or so
Indonesian firms engaged in picture making. . . . Industry quarters are de-
manding that imports ol Indian products be limited to thirty per year. 47

A quota system ol the sort demanded was put into cfTcct, and In-
dian imports were subsequently held to about thirty per year. But
meanwhile Indonesia was also demanding reciprocity. The Indian
exporters dealing with Indonesia were put in a difficult dilemma by
such demands. Even if they wanted to import Indonesian films, they
could not do so for want ol Indian import licenses. They were
therefore under pressure to do something about their own country’s
import system. We see this pressuic in operation in a story clatelincd
Bombay, in an Indian film tiade papci :

Film distributor and exporter K. K. Kapoor, who visited Djakarta re-
cently as a delegate to the Indian Filo. Festival and ■ >k a prominent part
in the discussion with Indonesian authorities, h<« raised a pertinent
point. In a statement he says that the distributors like him who negotiate
for the rights of Indian films lor o\ciscas lerritoiie* are denied the right to
negotiate for the import of films from thos: territories to India.

In Djakarta, for instance*, K. K. Kapoor was in a position to sell films to
Indonesia but he had no import license which would enable him to buy
Indonesian films for India. The import licenses giv'*" on the basis of old
record have no relation whatsoever to the export of Indian films. I his is a
rather odd position which the Go\ eminent of India ought to rectify by
linking export of films Iron) India to the import. . . .

The festivals of Indian films abroad have no meaning unless those who

" Motion Picture Vein Hook of A\in, l°$6. p 6. ■

251

participate in them have a right not only to sell Indian films but to buy
the foreign films in return. . . .

Thanks to the lack of such facilities, the Indian film export to the So-
viet Union, lor instance, has not made much headway during the last eight
years. . . .

Strangely enough India imports maximum number of films from coun-
tries like U.S.A. and U.K., which hardly import Indian films at all. . . .
This system obviously demands change; and it can be best effected by enun-
ciating a new policy which would compel every importer of foreign films
to export Indian films, or rather, would grant licenses only to the export-
ers ot Indian films abroad. 48

Thus there is pressure from various sides for a change of policy. To
save and expand export markets, government is urged to alter im-
port practices and, in effect, to play an active role in distribution.

Still another aspect of film export is pushing the Indian govern-
ment into deeper involvements in the problems of film. Export is
crucially important because ol the importance of foreign exchange
to India’s survival and development. When a film cams foreign
currency, a substantial portion of it is taken over by government,
and the exporter reimbursed in India in rupees. During the last dec-
ade, published statistics show a rise in the foreign earnings of In-
dian films: 10

1954

Rs. 9.713,000

1958

Rs. 11,309,000

1955

11.139,000

1959

15,379.000

1956

# 12,922.000

1960

17,589,000

1957

# 12,817,000

1961

16,331,000

Encouraging as the figures may seem, producers and government
are convinced they do not tell the full story. They are convinced
that the “real” earnings abroad of Indian films are two or three
times what these figures suggest. They feel that some exporters, to
avoid currency controls, are diverting a portion of earnings into se-
cret foreign accounts, and reporting as earnings substantially lower
figures. For this reason Mchboob Khan, producer of several films
which have done well abroad, is among those urging the govern-
ment to take an active role in film export/ 10 lie sees both pro-
ducer and government gaining by it.

4R Cine Advance, September 22, 1961.

49 India, 1962, and previous editions of this reference annual.
80 Cine Advance, September 22, 1961 .

252

In dealing with countries where government trading commissions
have taken charge of film negotiations, Indian exporters have found
their earnings sullering. Exports to Ceylon are an example. In for-
mer years these were the subject ol direct negotiation between In-
dian producers and Ceylon distributors. It was not unusual for the
producer of a Tamil film— in Madras, Salem, 01 Coimbatore— to re-
ceive Rs. 100,000 for Ceylon rights. Some producers got this as an
advance. Modern Theaties, ol Salem, sometimes produced a film on
advances from Ceylon and Singapore. 31 Alter 1958 producers had
to sell Ceylon rights through a Ceylon trade commissioner stationed
in Bombay. This official, with his substantial bargaining power, was
soon able to reduce prices to an avciagc ol Rs. 50,000 per film lor
Ceylon rights— paid on dclixery, ne\er as an advance.

With such examples of the advantages ol centralized negotiation,
it is not surprising that mans Indian producers, in spite ol long hos-
tility to government, began gradually to lax or participation ol gov-
ernment in export mat lei s. Thus as film traffic between nations has
increased, the pressures lor government involvement have also in-
creased. In the Indian film wot lcl -an auhipelago ol small busi-
nesses in a sea of public cnierpi ise— this raise's an insistent question:
How pi ivate can the pr ixate incl list i > remain?

This showing sold out

The Indian film world is conscious ol main . lessuics lor change.
At the moment they are outbalanced by lorces . business-as-usual.
The reasoning behind these lories can be summari/ed in a few
words: theatres are crowded. Throughout It lia lines wait at box
offices. In India no othei medium ma'ches film in its hold on wide 1
audiences.

Since earliest film days, these audiences have included a broad
range of economic strata, which aic l elicited in the range ol admis-
sion prices. Tluec, lour, oi fixe price brackets are common. In the
average city cinema, seats for evening showings may range bom a
low of Re. 0.10 to a high ol Rs in the fancier ' y cinemas the
high-priced seats— loges, boxes, or “solas —may run to Rs. 4. In
mofussil, the rural areas, a common range is Re. 0.25 to Re. 1 or

ra Interview, T. R. Sunclaram.

253

Re. 1.33. In these one may still find the lowest-price group sitting on
the ground— in 1958 the State of Madras enacted a requirement that
the cinema provide "druggets or carpets or mats" for ground cus-
tomers 152 — while the next price group may sit on benches without
backs, the third on benches with backs, the fourth and highest on
regular chairs. The chair customers are likely to have only three or
four rows in the back. Ground customers are likely to outnumber
all others put together.

The Westerner accustomed to visiting a cinema on the spur of
the moment may find this difficult in India. In the cities, the better
seats for weekend showings are often sold out days ahead. Evening
showings of a successful film will also be largely sold out ahead of
time. All except the cheapest seats are sold on reserved-seat basis.
One buys a particular seat for a particular showing. In big metro-
politan cinemas there may be four showings, at approximately noon
and 3, 6, and 9 p.m. On Sundays and even on Saturdays a fifth may
be added, at about 9 a.m. At cinemas in less crowded areas there
may be only one or two showings per day, in most cases starting
after dark and often in semi-open structures, so that darkening and
ventilation problems are avoided.

In big cities the 9 a.m. and noon showings may be devoted to
films other than the scheduled feature. Revivals or foreign films
may be shown at this time. In Delhi, Bombay, and Madras, films
of Satyajit Ray first appeared as “Sunday morning shows." Chil-
dren's films, such as those of the government-sponsored Children’s
Film Society, may also occupy the early periods, although their dis-
tribution has been slight.

The crowded state of theatres, reflecting a shortage of exhibition
facilities, puts power in the hands of the exhibitor and helps ex-
plain such phenomena as the excessive value placed on stars and
reported payments of "black money" to key theatres to secure book-
ings.

Since a theatre must be emptied, then filled again, in the brief
gaps between showings, there is likely to be much congestion at this

** Madras Fihndiary, 1959, p. 7.

254

time. A half hour before the break the lobby begins to be crowded
with waiting people. The city crowd has a varied look: some wear
the Gandhian dhoti, some are in pajamas, some in pants with In-
dian shirt or closed coat, a few wear Western clothes. Some are
barefoot, some wear sandals, some shoes. Most women wear saris;
ladies in elegant silk saris with much jewelry are in evidence. There
are usually many family groups.

Among the waiting people some squai. suspended an inch from
the floor. Some stand about. Many theatres have restaurants, where
the more well-to-do have a snack while waiting. Outside there is a
coming and going of taxis, tongas, bicycle rickshas, and even hand-
pulled rickshas. The lobby lea lures stills of current and coming at-
tractions, and perhaps a cutout display of a star. The emphasis on
the star is everywhere in evidence. Fan magazines— there appear to
be some two hundred in India— and song leaflets may be hawked
on the sidewalk and in the lobby.

While city cinemas are architecturally similar to Western cine-
mas, some rural cinemas ate quite difletent. This is especially true
of “temporary cinemas.” These are a phenomenon that has played
a part in the deep penetration of the motion picture into rural
areas, especially in the southern states. Ol the approximately
4,400 cinemas in India in 1902, about half were in the four south-
ern states of Madras, Kerala, Mysore, and Andhra Ptadesh. Of
these, (550 were classified as temporary. In this region most villagers
were within reach of a cinema. This was especially true of Madras,
which had 8 10 cinemas, ol which 3(50 were “tempo. »ry.”

A temporary cinema, in Madras state law— eao tate has slightly
different regulations— is one that stays less than a year in one loca-
tion. If this location proves profitable, the exuibitor may in prac-
tice reopen in the same place after a snort lapse ol time— alter the
monsoon, for example. T he law says, “there shall be an interval
of three months be lore the same site is again licensed. , ’ 3 Or he
may move a hundred yards clown the road. By remaining tem-
porary” he escapes some of the rigid regulations regarding exits,

M Ibid., p. 86.

255

sanitary facilities, and parking facilities that apply to permanent
structures.

In effect, a temporary cinema is an old-style traveling cinema that
has settled down, but remains in the legal framework evolved for
traveling cinemas. States have permitted this to happen because of
the various values involved. In Madras, for example, approved
films shown by requirement include not only those from the central
government Films Division but a few from the state itself. The non-
traveling temporary cinema has increased the communication net-
work available to central and state governments. Many a rural cin-
ema, operating in an area of low economic level, could hardly
survive on any basis except that available to temporary cinemas.

While some rural cinemas use tents, and many tin-root structures
are also seen— especially in Lhe north— the southern temporary thea-
tre is usually a thatched-roof structure, built according to age-old
practice. During years when metal, cement, and other precious ma-
terials have usually been unavailable for theatre building, thatched-
roof construction has continued to piove invaluable in rural areas.
For cinemas it appears to have several advantages. An excellent in-
sulator, the thatch offers cool shelter. It also has fine acoustic qual-
ities. The thatched roof loses its insulating effect after a year or
two and must therefore be replaced. T his necessity dovetails neatly
with legal requirements as well as with the Indian weather cy-
cle. The operator of a typical southern temporary cinema uses a
thatched-roof structure for nine months, tears it down at the start
of the monsoon, and afterwatd builds a new one under a new
temporary license. A temporary license is generally given only in
sparsely populated areas. The location must be a reasonable dis-
tance from the nearest temple, school, hospital, permanent cinema,
and rival temporary cinema.

The thatched-roof cinema, operating only after dark, is generally
open at the sides. It is surrounded, at a slight distance, by a fence or
stockade. Admission is paid when entering the enclosed area. The
area generally includes a refreshment stand as well as latrine facili-
ties. Because the structure is entirely open at the sides, it appears
to offer little fire hazard. The projection booth, at the rear, has its
own tin construction.

256

In the crowds attending rural cinemas, whole families are even
more in evidence than in the city. Babies crawl about, oblivious to
the screen entertainment.

In rural and city cinema alike, the Indian audience is far more
vocal in its reactions than most Western audiences. The appear-
ance of the star, the beginning of a familiar song, bring instant audi-
ble reaction. The star, the song— these are clearly the pivots around
which the Indian film world revolves.

In the cities American films are still much in evidence. They are
booked regularly into about seventy city theatres. 54 Theatres book-
ing American films are usually the better theatres, centrally located.
Their prominence gives an exaggerated impression of the present
role of the American film. The 1959 International Motion Picture
Almanac , estimating the American share of set centime in various
Asian countries in the mid-1950s, placed it at 70 percent for the
Philippines, 60 percent for Burma, only 25 percent for India. 55 The
Kinematograph Renters' Society, representing the American com-
panies m India, says even this figiuc was greatly exaggerated. It
reports the American share ol Indian screentime in 1961 as “less
than five percent.” 56 The loyalty of the filmgoing public of India
is to Indian stars, Indian songs.

Stars and songs— it is not surprising that the world of the studios
likewise revolves around these. The deteiencc, even homage, paid
to stars is extraordinary. Crowds wait lor them for hours around
their homes and studios. Top stars feel obliged to maintain a cer-
tain style. Retinues of followers arc usually (" hand. Stars arc ex-
pected to have foreign cars. In Japan, David b nnson tells us, “A
star may come to the studio by bus or bicycle." 5 ' This is inconceiv-
able in India. Though the temporal power oi nawabs and mahara-
jas may have fallen on politicians, it is the stars who have otherwise
inherited their mantles. In 1962 Prime Minister Nehru captained a
cricket team for a charity benefit; it played against another team

« Estimate b> Eric Johnston, quoted in Film Daily , November 28, 1962
B!i International Motion Future Almanac , 1959, pp. 23A-24A.

M Interview, Cole.

67 Robinson, “Sixty Ycais in Japanese Ci .jua.” in International Film Annual , No.
2 , p. 159.

257

captained by Vice-President Radakrishnan, shortly to become Pres-
ident. The event, promoted with fanfare, raised Rs. 30,000. A sim-
ilar cricket match that same month featured teams captained by
film stars Raj Kapoor and Dilip Kumar. It raised Rs. 100,000. 58

In Madras one of the most astonishing phenomena is film star
Sivaji Ganesan. Among southern film stars only M. G. Ramachan-
dran, the star associated with the Dravidian movement, has in re-
cent years come close to him in status. For some years a leading
Madras theatre has shown only films starring Sivaji Ganesan. This
has not been difficult, for he stars in innumerable films. For some
years it has seemed risky for any producer to produce a Tamil film
not starring Sivaji Ganesan. He produces films himself but also ap-
pears in the productions of others. He is always involved in many
projects simultaneously, doling out a morning of shooting time here,
an afternoon there, while numerous producers wait nervously for
his next moment of availability. It is common for films made under
these circumstances to be in production one, two, or three years, or
even more. For some years in the Madras film industry scores of
film workers— producers, directors, actors, writers, technicians— have
at all times been dependent on the favorable decisions of Sivaji
Ganesan. His nod secures financial backing. Because of his central
importance, script, cast, and choice of director are all subject to his
approval. During his precious appearances at the studio he works
with speed and precision, and can be so charming to co-workers
that he is adored by all. Then he is off again, leaving anxiety as
to when he will return once more. In appearance he does not es-
pecially conform to any hero pattern. He is, on the contrary, squat
and stockily built. But his fine voice has a large range of expressive-
ness, and he can play such a variety of roles that almost any starring
role is offered to him— comic or tragic— without regard to suitabil-
ity. Such is his standing, so precious his time, that no director dares
direct him, and his scenes are often completely out of key with
other portions of a film. Seldom has a substantial talent been used
so recklessly— or so profitably. He has amassed a fortune and car-
ries on well-organized and well-publicized charities.

68 Screen , February 2, 19(52.

258

under their feet, and that something drastic must be done to keep
India Indian. Only in these terms can one understand why the
Madras legislature should hold long, nervous debate on whether to
ban rock n roll from Indian films, without anyone having a clear
idea of what the evil was. After some debate the Home Minister,
Mr. Bhaktavatsalam, was asked to enlighten the legislators on the
nature of rock 'n' roll. He answered* “1 do not know the details
or the technique of it, but I have heard that it is an obscene dance
performed by men and women.” 62

Still others see the crisis as one of government encroachment.
Both central and state governments, lor reasons related to far-reach-
ing problems, have become more and more involved in the film field,
and some sec this as a stranglehold of deadly danger.

The involvements of government in the film field have surely be-
come varied. As we have seen, some have been welcomed by some
sectors of the industry, others have not. Since independence the cen-
tral government has become the chief pioducei of documentaries
and newsieels. It has become the chid - almost the sole-producer of
children’s films. It has dabbled— as in India ’57— in leaturc produc-
tion. It has centralized control of ccnsoiship. It has entered film fi-
nance. With its Films Division auditoriums, it has become an ex-
hibitor. With mobile vans it has carried this exhibition into rural
areas. State governments have also used mobile vans, especially in
areas not well covered by “temporary” cinemas. In 1901 the central
government, with the launching of the Film Institute of India, em-
barked on film training. Meanwhde, lot rea««,. ol both “external
publicity” and foreign exchange, it has taken i, ceasing control of
im port -export ma t let s.

One aspect of this, not \et discussed, has far-reaching implica-
tions for Indian pioducers. For decades they have depended entirely
on imported raw film, and have bought most ol it from Kcxlak.
Since the 1957 fotcign-cxchange crisis, permissible imports have
been severely restricted by the quota system. In September of that
year, Kodak and other importers were limited to 10 percent ol what
they had imported in their best year; the amount was later revised

na Mail, September 4, 195S.

265

to 60 per cent, then to 50, 66 2/3, 50, 40, 33 1/3, and 16 2/3 percent.

These restrictions necessitated a system of allocations to pro-
ducers. The central government, assisted by regional advisory com-
mittees, took charge of these allocations. Exactly as in the Second
World War, priorities were established favoring the “established”
producer. In many ways a logical action, it was welcomed by in-
dustry leaders as curbing the disruptive effect of adventurers. In
the Calcutta area, those with past production of five films received
top consideration. Since the already world-famous Satyajit Ray,
maker of Father Panchali, Aparajito, Jelsaghar, and Parashpatar ,
did not fit into this top-priority category, he had to wait for a time
for raw stock for Devi. This illustrates the dangers of any mechani-
cal priority. On the other hand, if human judgments enter an allo-
cation system, the danger of its political use looms large. The con-
tinuation of the foreign-exchange crisis makes this a problem of po-
tential importance.

For the moment film shortages have been eased by state trading.
In addition to stocks brought in by Kodak and others under their
quotas, the central government has brought in quantities of film
from eastern European countries, under barter arrangements; this
film has come largely from the East German companies Agfa and
Deko. The Agfa film is esteemed by Indian producers, the Deko dis-
liked. This has introduced constant negotiation between producers
and government agents to obtain the preferred film. Meanwhile the
government had embarked on a solution of longer range. It had
decided to set up its own raw-film factory, the Hindustan Photo
Films Manufacturing Company, at Ootacamund in southern India,
to supply all of India’s raw-film needs and perhaps eventually to
export film. Kodak was invited to collaborate on this project as con-
sultant for a limited number of years, but did not wish to transfer
its hard-won knowledge under any short-term arrangement. Several
other companies took similar positions. Eventually, under an ar-
rangement concluded in 1959, 03 the Indian government proceeded
with its plans with the collaboration of a small French producer of

** Indian Express, December 30, 1959.

266

raw film, Bauchet, never a factor in world film markets. The start
of quantity production, at first announced for 1962, was later set for
1963. The factory would begin with black-and-white film, postpon-
ing plans for color-film manufacture. Film producers uneasily faced
the certainty that they would soon, of necessity, be using the prod-
ucts of this mammoth enterprise, launched with the assistance of a
film manufacturer of less than first ran«c. If there should be difficul-
ties, and shortages in any particular kind of film, there would of
necessity be government allocations. Governmental control over the
basic raw material of the industry would be complete. An allocation
system would imply life-and-dcath authority over any film unit. The
government was meanwhile talking of film equipment manufacture
as a further saving of foreign exchange. The Indian producer, al-
ready hedged in by a great variety of government film activity and
a multiplicity of controls, saw in the foreign-exchange crisis the
certainty of their growth.

Tf I 1 '** private film industry has been under constant attack from
many sides, there has been an equally constant attack on almost all
aspects of governmental activity relating to film. Letters to newspa-
pers return again and again to this theme. The tone of such writings
often suggests that they are reverberations of a larger struggle be-
tween private and public enterprise.

A letter to the Times of India states that the writer, “as a tax
payer/’ is shocked at the way Lhe Films Division is run.

That its productions are third-rate is not in doub'- ''um rural people are
not willing to tolerate them ... in the villages the 'rvices of local Con-
gress bosses are requisitioned to persuade people to witness its produc-
tions. One of the most pathetic sights in the countryside is that of the Gov-
ernment’s mobile film vans waiting forlornly for people to gather. . . .
The Films Division (like A.I.R.) illustrates the point that art and culture
can never be successfully nationalized .® 4

Another letter writer complains:

In a recent newsreel I noticed that all but one of the items related to Min-
isters. . . . Unless the Films Division, which holds an absolute monopoly

•* Times of India, October 2, 1961.

267

over newsreels and documentaries, is released from the shackles of the
Government and the ruling party there is every danger of Indian democracy
being smothered by overwhelming propaganda aimed at establishing one-
party rule in the country . 05

The Children's Film Society has also been a frequent target of
letter writers, usually charging bureaucratic ineptness and misman-
agement. 66

Editorials from time to time join the attack. An editorial in the
Indian Express criticizes the government for its handling of India's
second international film festival (1961), in which producers and di-
rectors are said to have been relegated to lesser seats while ministry
officials, along with stars, decorated platforms.

Unfortunately the cheap tendency of the Union Ministry of Information
and Broadcasting to lotus all attention on itself is as pathetic as it is
symptomatic of a film-star complex. The industry, not the Ministry, should
be the “star” on such occasions . 67

Another editorial, in the Statesman , takes up the perennial at-
tack on governmental Hindi and, in passing, has a favorable woul
for the private film industry:

No one can really claim that the national language has taken form yet.
The man in the street speaks a language that is lar removed from what we
hear on the radio. Clumsy new terms, old Sanskrit words transplanted
into new contexts, the flowery literary term when a simple practical word
would be much more comprehensible, these hardly add up to a workaday
language in which the nation's everyday tasks arc to be carried on. ... I
would venture that the language used in Bombay films is the nearest we
have got yet toward evolving a language which has flexibility, simplicity
and a quality which can best be described as communicable. Film makers,
after all, can ill afford to experiment with language or ram things down
people’s throats . 68

05 Ibid., November 15, 1961.

“The charges led in 1962 to a reorganization of the Chilchen’s Film Society. Its
films had generally been found unsatisfactory, although lepeatcdly praised in of-
ficial pronouncements.

97 Indian Express , October 28, 1961. In a similar vein the niaga/inc Indian Doc-
umentary had criticized an official of the West Bengal government who in 1956
journeyed to New Delhi to accept the Presidents medal for Puttier Panchali
and even “paraded himseJf wealing it.” Indian Ducumentmy, Annual, 1956.

** Statesman, July 7, 1958.

268

The continual attacks on government, like those on industry, sug-
gest that the status cjuo must yield to change. From every side come
suggested solutions for the rifts and troubles of the film world. The
proposals dillcr as sharply as the attacks.

To some the time has come for the industry itself to establish or-
der and a new eia of common sense. The suicidal fragmentation of
the industry must end, tuns the argum-nt, and large combines must
be formed. 1 he example ol Japan is ('"ten cited, where according
to Anderson and Richie l lie film field is fiimly ruled by six produc-
tion companies, each controlling a segment of the market through
ownership ol theatres and through block hooking. 09 Many who urge
such a setup for India also cite the United States as an example, of-
ten unaware that the American industry, since the Supreme Court
“divorcement” order ol 1918, has cxpeiienccd some fragmentation
of its own.

While some urge solutions based on private control, others see
hope onlv in a gi eater role lor government. They propose nation-
alization of various portions, or all, ol the industry. A plan appar-
ently favored as early as 1951 by some meinbcis ol the Film Enquiry
Committee, but not recommended by the committee as a whole,
was that the cennal go\ eminent should take ovet all film distribu-
tion, leaving production and exhibition in private hands. Under
such an arrangement, it was argued, the go\ eminent would he able
to control the industry from the middle, influence film production
standards in a posit i\c way, and bring the “black money pioblem
under contiol.

Others prominent in the film world have atgiu « that the govern-
ment should go still 1 uither. Among these, K. A. Abbas has argued
for c omplelc nationalization:

l Jr Jess the film imliistis is nationalized there is no hope for Indian films.
The nature ol the film econoim of our country is such that a producer is
hound to make had films.

To the argument that there will he regimentation of thought in a na-
tionali /«1 film un.lmaUng, 1 will -say tluu there is no thought in Indian
films today. 70

"" Andei son and Ridiie. 7 he Infmnrse him. p. H r >-
70 .Quoted in Statesnuw, April 19. 19a"

269

In 1962 a bill was introduced in the Lok Sabha calling for appoint-
ment of a committee to plan the nationalization of the film indus-
try.

Amid the proposals, the attacks, the criticisms, films are made,
distributed, exhibited. Lines form at the box office. While new, un-
known patterns may be in the offing, the old persist. In India the old
and the new manage to live in surprising, sometimes dramatic, co-
existence.

In April, 1962, millions of people gathered, in accordance with
ancient tradition, at the town of Hardwar, where the Ganges
emerges from Himalayan foothills onto the plains. Here the waters
have a special sanctity, and every twelve years millions gather in
a kumbh mela, a festival in the course of which they immerse them-
selves in the waters. On April 11 “an endless stream of pilgrims'*
moved toward the bathing ghats. Here and there a banner pro-
claimed in Sanskrit the futility of earthly pleasures. The pilgrims
wound their way through thousands already arrived for the great
festival. Each band of pilgrims signified its arrival with a parade to
'the holy waters. Mounted police provided escort. The Times of
India , describing the event, tells us:

Parties of sadhus making weird noises and waving sticks today danced their
way along the labyrinthine lanes of this town to the main bathing ghat.
Spearheading the procession was a 20-piece band playing the latest pop-
ular film hit. 71

71 Times of India , April 12, 1962.

270

Conclusion

The authors, dealing with various problems of the Indian film in-
dustry, have tried to report objectively the spectrum of views. In the
course of such a survey, it is natural to form opinions on matters in-
volved. The authors will briefly state their views on some of the is-
sues touched on in preceding pages.

The bitterness surrounding the documentary film field is dis-
turbing. It is understandable that the central government moved
into this field on a massive scale. To serve pressing communica-
tion needs of a new nation, no other available medium offered com-
parable values. And the private film industry, in spite of early inter-
est in topicals, had never developed a strong documentary film

se r * «

Yet it is a pity that government moved into this field in a way
that almost prevented such a sector from developing. Although
monopoly was net the stated intention, monopoly was the almost
certain result of policies adopted particularly the block-booking
contract forced on theatres. Was such a contract necessary?

What would happen if, even now, the government amended this
contract to permit any theatre to substitute, for a Films Division
documentary it did not wish to exhibit, an approved film from a
private source? Perhaps it would be too late l such a change to
provide incentive for private initiative in documentary production
and distribution, yet the change might be a step toward creating
such incentive. It would at least improve the position of the Films

Division vis-a-vis its critics.

Very likely further changes would be necessary to make it pos-
sible for private initiative to survive in this fieh. A pioducer would
find documentary production more feasible economically if a thea-
tre could, at its option, retain an exceptional documentary for pe-
riods longer than the one-week bookings now established. A popular
feature film sometimes stays at a .neatre twenty or thirty weeks. In
each of these weeks, it presumably reaches a largely different group.

271

Why should the accompanying documentary be changed each week?
The weekly change makes sense for newsreels but hardly for docu-
mentaries. Would not one outstanding documentary, of the caliber
of the Canadian City of Gold or the Dutch Glass, be preferred by
any exhibitor to a series of pedestrian compilations? If an Indian
film maker produced a documentary of exceptional quality and se-
cured its approval by the Film Advisory Board, why should it not
be booked into first-run theatres with a popular feature and remain
throughout the run? At Films Division rates, such a distribution pat-
tern might well make the production of documentaries a practical
risk. And it is possible that first-run theatres would pay a higher rate
to obtain quality. The exhibitors who complain of being forced to
carry films of little audience interest would have less to complain of
if they occasionally had a choice. And if such occasional choices
existed, it would help the Films Division to arrive at a clearer esti-
mate of the values of its own products, now untested by any ri-
valry, by any procedure of choice. The resulting stimulus to the
Films Division itself might be one of the major benefits to be ob-
tained. And it is unlikely that the annual income of the Films Divi-
sion would be seriously reduced.

The zeal to produce documentary films does not appear to be
widespread in the Indian film industry. But the conditions under
which the industry grew up, under foreign domination, gave little
scope for such zeat to develop. Where it exists now, coupled with
talent and integrity, it should be given an outlet offering reasonable
chance of financial survival. The current system of an “approved’'
panel of “independent” producers, making films of prescribed con-
tent under rigid Films Division supervision, in no sense answers
that need. That system is only a part of the current machinery of
Films Division monopoly.

In a sense, the umbrella of the Film Advisory Board guarantees
a kind of monopoly, or at least a tight centralization of control. It
may be open to question whether such strict control is sound pol-
icy in a democratic republic, especially when the entire broadcast-
ing system is likewise under government control. But at present this
strict control is coupled, in the field of documentaries and news-
reels, with a complete one-unit domination of the whole machinery

272

of production and distribution. Here centralization reaches a point
where it is stultifying to its own efforts. An artistic inbreeding re-
sults, and is exemplified by the overwhelming sameness of Indian
documentary films. Under the circumstances this is inevitable, for
many of those involved in their production hardly know that other
kinds of documentaries are possible. Neither does the Indian film
public.

In view of this, the authors asked some questions, which were a
product of curiosity. Does the Film Advisory Board ever “approve”
documentary films produced abroad? Do documentary film indus-
tries of other nations perhaps have something of occasional value
for Indian audiences? The United Nations agencies have produced
some fine films; why should such films, when appropriate to India,
not be given approved status, and from time to time satisfy the re-
quirement imposed on exhibitois, whether distributed through the
Films Division or through others?

In answer to such questions, the authors received a pu//ling ar-
ray of answers. A Films Division executive stated that it would be a
violation of regulations for the Film Advisory Board to approve a
film produced outside India. An official of the Film Advisory Board
stated, just as categorically, that there was no icgulation to prevent
the board from approving a ioreign-produted film, although it had
not happened. An official of the Ministry of Information and
Broadcasting stated equally categorically that it would be illegal for
the Film Advisory Board to approve a foreign film. He explained
that an element of compulsion was involved v. he distribution of
these films, that the propriety of this rested on * . being in the na-
tional interest, and that this would be undermined if the products
of other nations became involved, lie could not cite the applicable
law or laws.

Whatever the legal lacls, the films going into theatres as ap-
proved films have all been films distributed by the Films Division,
either produced, commissioned, or bought by the films Division,
and all have been Indian. While the legal confusion needs to be
clarified, the severe!) domestic emphasis should perhaps also be
examined. Even a slight infusion r occasional documentaries from
elsewhere could not only w r iden the horizons of the audience but

273

aid in the development of standards, both for the audience and for
the Films Division.

The same set of principles applies to another problem discussed
in an earlier chapter— the plight of Indian film societies. One of the
potential values of a film society is illustrated by the career of
Satyajit Ray, as well as of several other Calcutta directors. Their
preparation for film making had as one of its major elements a
study of film masterworks from all lands. Satyajit Ray could hardly
have been so well prepared to communicate with world-wide audi-
ences had he not had a sense of contact with many lands through a
close knowledge of their films. Satyajit Ray, Chidananda Das Gupta,
and others acquired that knowledge in the face of almost insuper-
able governmental obstacles. One set of obstacles was financial and
included import duties, entertainment taxes, censorship levies. Can
the revenue to be drived from a handful of nonprofit film societies
possibly justify such harassment of a valuable educational mechan-
ism, so recognized in many lands? Another set of obstacles was
procedural, and included the necessity of endless forms for import
'and censorship procedures. Here government policy gave film socie-
ties a choice of accepting all the burdens placed on commercial
ventures, or fleeing to the shelter of foreign embassies. The result-
ing dependence of a number of Indian film societies on foreign em-
bassies may involve greater risks than exemption of such societies
from censorship procedures.

Film societies serve different functions. As we have seen, one has
to do with the development of future film makers. The National
Film Theatre in London and the similar venture of the Cinema-
theque in Paris have helped in recent years to raise a generation of
film makers with a wide, sophisticated knowledge of film, its mas-
terpieces of the past, and its current outstanding work in all lands.
Indian film makers, by comparison, hardly have an inkling of what
has been done and is being done elsewhere. An India-sponsored
international film festival once in ten years is hardly equivalent to a
continuing exposure to alternatives and possibilities.

Another kind of film society is university-based. Most of its mem-
bers will not be film makers but may eventually have careers in gov-
ernment, education, business, or other fields in which wide acquaint-

274

ance with the films of the world, and ,he social roles they can play,
can have varied values. But such societies can hardly exist without
exemptions of the sort granted elsewhere. Exemption of a univer-
sity-based film society from censorship procedures hardly involves
national peril. If a university education does not allow and even
encourage exposure to a diversity of views and attitudes, can it be an
advanced education in any meaningiui sense? In launching a Uni-
versity Film Council under the auspices of the Ministry of Educa-
tion, and centralizing procurement of films for university film so-
cieties, the central government has taken a step that is economically
helpful, but does not quite set the stage lor vigorous development
of such societies. The film society cannot generate vitality if treated
as a mere outlet for what the central government considers safe and
beneficial.

It has been a principal theme of out comments so far that the
central government should make it easier for students and film
ma^e’ 4 .. see a stimulating variety of films, including films from
foreign lands. We reali/c that in taking such a view we are swim-
ming against a tide of cultural nationalism. But we feel that modern
India should remember well the words of its own leaders and saints.
Among the favorite quotations of modern India arc the words of
Gandhi:

I do not want my house to he walled in on all sides and my windows to
he stuffed. 1 want the culture of all lands to he blown about my house as
freely as possible, but I relu.se to Ik* blown ofl my feet by any of them. 1

Too many government officials have, in effect, p sed this to make
it read: "I do not want the culture of other lands to be blown
about my bouse, lest it blow my people off their rect.

Such an attitude seems to be one ol »he chiving forces behind the
strict Indian censorship. It is our impression that India places un-
warranted faith in censorship. Its ccnsois often cut films to ribbons.
How much do they accomplish? A film shown in India in 1962,
The Laves of Salannnbo—leMuiing an international cast, theoreti-
cally based on a work of Flaubert, and distributed by Twentieth
Century-Fox-was 120 minutes l in its original . rm, and ap-

1 Quoted in Nehru, The Discovery of India, p. 3<)7.

275

proximately 80 minutes long as shown in India. The censor board
had carefully removed scenes of passion— making it suggestive rather
than demonstrative— and according to its custom cut out all flimsy-
garment sequences. Did the censors imagine for a moment that
the film was less vulgar when they had finished with it? The case il-
lustrates a danger. The producers of films of this sort are not wor-
ried about Indian censors. They make films with easily removable
sequences, even alternative sequences. But producers of more mean-
ingful films will not readily submit their films for such butchery. If
The Loves of Salammbo meant no more and no less after several
reels of pruning, the same would not be true of Ingmar Bergman's
The Virgin Spring . The government of India was disappointed be-
cause its second international film festival, in 1961, elicited a cross-
section of the world’s second-rate films. It appears that in spite of
the government's eleventh-hour instructions to its censor board to
be indulgent toward festival films, many countries were reluctant
to run the Indian censorship gantlet. What was tine of this festival
is true of Indian film imports in general. The exploitation films do
not avoid India, but many of the finest films stay home.

One of the most frequent complaints against Indian censorship
concerns films classified “A”— for adults only. Although such films
are earmarked for adults, the adults are ttcated as children and the
films as painstakingly scissored as films for children. A demand made
repeatedly by producers seems well taken. If a film is to be limited
to adults, should the adults perhaps have the right to see the work
its creator intended?

Of the disputes sui rounding the Indian film world, many con-
cern the uneasy juxtaposition of the private and public sectors. In
this respect the Indian film scene holds special interest. Its public
sector presents an extreme of centralization, its private sector an
extreme of fragmentation.

We have commented at some length on problems involving the
documentary. But toward the over-all well-being of the film indus-
try, the condition of the more influential feature film is, no doubt, of
more crucial importance. Here we find a disorganized industry ca-
reening on its way, and government desperately trying to amend its
course with a host of governmental devices. It may be well to at-

276

tempt a brief assessment of these devices and what they may have
achieved.

One device is governmental action in film finance. The case of
Father Panchali demonstrated dramatically the possible values of
such action. However, that a government lolc need not necessarily
lead toward finer things has been amply suggested by subsequent
cases. The West Bengal government, tW> very one which had made
possible the completion of Pat her Pane! ah, followed its success by
financing another feature, Dakater Hathe (In the Clutches of the
Dacoits). Announced as a film for children, it was perhaps one of
the most horrifying products ever dedicated to the young. A state
official justified it on the ground that “children like it.”-

Meanwhile the success of Pathn Panchali also appears to have
aided the birth of the central government’s Film Finance Corpora-
tion. Again immediate results did nor provide a Father Panchali.
The government, intent on sound management, entrusted the di-
rection of the Film Finance Got potation to a former income tax
commissioner. The new coipoiation, intent on soundness, promptly
loaned Rs. 500,000 for the completion of a new Sliantaram version—
this time in color— of the Shakuntala story. Named Stree, it pre-
sented a colorful spectacle, with a quota of musical numbers; dis-
tributors should have been willing to finance it in lull. The Film Fi-
nance Cot poration, whatever its potential, did not automatically
lead to the bieakingof new giound.

Another governmental film-improvement device is the Film In-
stitute ol India, thiough which th* cenlial gi#» *nment in 1001
undertook film training. As with the neat ion of e Film Finance
Gorporation, such a step had been recommended by the Film in-
quiry Committee. The action was a iccognition that the industry, in

2 S> nopsis: A ben and gii 1 of well-to-do familv aie kidnaped In dacoits. There
au* unsuccessful attempts to .mange a lansoin puvinent Hnalh the dacoits sell
l lie girl, chugged, to a white slaver foi Rs 300 I lie ho\ ii i allied o\ei to a man
who is thought to he a icligious fanatic, of a sect still practicing human sacrifice.
We see the hoy prepared ioi the litual In being cleansed in a pond, then tied
down, ready to he slaughtered. AcLualh the supposed fanatic is a wicked lclalive
of the children, intent on getting the lien’s inheritance*. Mcainv ile one of the
dacoits has icpented and bought the girl k horn the white sh..er f and lie now
works to free them. A hie is lighted to signal police, who close in as the hu-
man sac 1 ificc is about to take place I hr state invested Rs. 75.000 in the film.

277

consequence of its fragmentation during and after the Second World
War, had ceased to provide within its own structure any machinery
for continued training. For the training venture the government
bought the long-idle studios of Prabhat, standing in ghostly silence
on a tract on the outskirts of Poona. Thus premises which in the
days of Prabhat glory had served as a training school for many a
rising artist became the setting for governmental instruction in film
technique. The small group of students who began here in 1961
found at their disposal huge sound stages, as well as adjoining field
and woodland complete with lakes, river banks, and concealed cable
connections. It is difficult to imagine a more copious setting for
training.

But again, government action in this field 'will not automatically
lead to finer things. The curriculum of the school runs in danger of
a narrow technical approach. Indian producers long believed that
if they had a few more of the technical secrets held by others they
could make films which would unlock world markets. However, the
eventual triumph was not one of technical know-how. This was not
the missing magic. The Film Institute of India is in peril of a sim-
ilar misguided faith in technology— as though splicers, Moviolas,
and zoom lenses hold the secrets of great film making. Again we
make a plea that technical learning, essential as it is, be developed
within a framework of broad study of the arts, including film mas-
terpieces of many lands. Without such a frame of reference, such a
stretching of horizons, such a multiplication of alternatives, students
will end by imitating yesterday's big-grossing Indian film. They will
be studying how to be tomorrow's Dilip Kumar, Raj Kapoor, or
Sivaji Ganesan.

Another governmental film-improvement mechanism has been
the presidential and other state awards. These awards, instituted in
1954 “with the object of encouraging the production of films of a
high aesthetic and technical standard and of educational and cul-
tural value," 3 have scarcely been mentioned in this volume, since
their impact appears to have been negligible. Film makers have no
doubt been delighted to receive cash prizes but there is no evi-
dence that their existence has influenced the decisions and choices
8 Indian Films, p. 2.

Appendix : Indian film production sta tistics.

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Interviews

Abbas, K. A., writer
Abraham, David, actor
Agarwal, G., distributor
Agtc, B. Y., distributor
Anand, Indcr Raj, writer
Babu, Chitti, distributor
Bahadur, Satish, social scientist
Baji, A. R., public servant
Bakaya, M., executive
Banerjee, Jithen, technician
Barua, Shyamalesh, technician
Bhanja, Manujendra, journalist
Bhaskcr, K. Dayanand, executive
Bhat, M. I)., public servant
Bhatia, Vanraj, musicologist
Bode, Homi, journalist
Bose, A jit, producer
Bose, Debaki, producer
Bose, Madhu, director
Chatter jee, M. D., distributor
Chcttiyar, T. S. P. I,. P. Chidam-
barani, financier
Dasarathy, B. S., public servant
Das Gupta, Chidananda, exec ulive
Das Gupta, Dhiren, technician
Das Gupta, Hari S., producer
Das Gupta, Prabir, distributor
Desai, Ghimanlal, producer
Devi, Kanan, actress
Dewan, Karan, actor
Ganesan, Sivaji, actor
Ganguly, Dhiren, producer
Ghosh, N. K., journalist
Gohar, actress
Gole, R. S., executive
Gopalan, S., public servant
Gupta, Anuva, actress
Irani, Ardeshir M., producer

Ishwar, R. V., executive
Iyer V. A. 1\, distributor
Jagirciar, Gajanan, actor
Kannamba, actress
Kapoor, Ram, publicist
Keskar, B. V'., public servant
Khan, Midi boob R., producer
Khanclpur, K. L„ producer
Khernka, B. I,., producer
Khote, Durgu, actress
Kothari, D. L., public servant
Krishnamurti, S., distributor
Krishnaswamy, M. V., producer
Kulanclaivelu, R., public servant
Maclan, J. J., pioducer
Maui, Battling, actor
Matlmr, J. public servant
Mathur, M. P., public servant
M tliur, P. S., public servant
Malluiram. T. A., actress
Melnotra, N. D., public servant
Mehta, C C.. writer
Mciyappan, A. V., producer
Meuon, I. K., e> ( utive
i\in , E/ra, proch r
Modi, Sohrab, pr» ..ucer
Mukherji, Subodli, executive
Munsiii, K. M., lawyer
Munsni, Lilavati, publicist
Naidu, S M. S„ producer
Nath, Maliendra, executive
Natkarni, P. M , distributor
Padmanabhan. R., producer
Parthasarathy, S. t journalist
Pali, Promodc, director
r, ialke, Neelakanth, inslator
Iillai, S. S.. journalist
Pochee, K. A., distributor

283

Prabhu, P. V., distributor
Pramanick, D. f executive
Pratap, K., public servant
Ragini t actress
Rajakumari, T. R. f actress
Ramachandra, C., music director
Ramachandran, M. G., actor
Ramachandran, S. t technician
Ramadhyani, R. K., public servant
Raman, V., technician
Ramanathan, G., music director
Ramanujam. C. N., exhibitor
Ramnoth, T. V., journalist
Rao, Veeranki Kama, executive
Ray, Satyajit, producer
Reddi, B. N., producer
Reddi, Gopala, public servant
Roerich, De\ika Rani, actress
Roy, Bimal, producer
Sampath, E. V. K , public servant
Sanyal, Pahari, actor
Sanyal, Sudhirendra, journalist
Sathe, V., writer
Sen, Asit, director

Seshadri, R. M., lawyer
Seton, Marie, writer
Seyne, Benoycnclra, technician
Shah, Ghandulal, producer
Shan ta ram, V., producer
Sharma, Kidar, producer
Sharma, Rajeiulra, director
Shirur, R. M., distributor
Sinha, Tapan, director
Sircar, B. N., producer
Srinivasan, C., executive
Subbalakshmi, S. D., actress
Subrahmanyain, K., producer
Subramaniam, C., public servant
Sundaram, S. D., waiter
Sundaram, T. R., producer
Vaid>anathan, K. S., distributor
Vasagam, S. K., journalist
Vasudevan, T. E., producer
Venkat, T. K., technician
Venkataraman, R., public servant
Venkatraman, K., financier
Wadia, J. B. H., producer

284

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Rahim, N. K. “The Film in India," in Penguin Film Review, No. 5. Lon-

289

don and New York, Penguin Books, 1947.

Ramadhyani, R. K. Essays and Addresses. Delhi, Atma Ram & Sons, 1961.
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Broadcasting, 1955, 1956, etc.

Report on an Enquiry into the Conditions of Labour in the Cinema In-
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Report of the Film Enquiry Committee. New Delhi, Government of India
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Report of the Indian Cinematograph Committee, 1927-1928. Madras, Gov-
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Report of the Society for the Prevention of Unhealthy Trends in Motion
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1959, 1961.

Robinson, David. “Sixty Years of Japanese Cinema,” in International
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Rotha, Paul, Sinclair Road, and Richard Griffith. Documentary Film. Lon-
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1955.

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Sastri, K. A. Nilakanta. ,A History of South India. Madras, Oxford Uni-
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Scotsman. Edinburgh, daily.

Screen. Bombay, Express Newspapers, weekly.

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1956.

Seminar. New Delhi, monthly.

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Statesman. Calcutta and New Delhi, daily.

Theatre Arts . New York, monthly.

Times of India. Bombay and New Delhi, biily.

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291

Index

Abbas, K. A., 94, 126-28, 151-53 241-
44, 246-48, 269
ABC of Cinematography , 12
Abhijan (Expedition), 219, 230, 232-35
Achhul Kanya (Untouchable Gill), 96-
97

Actress, status of, 13-14, 20, 46 161-64
262

Aden, 250

Adhikar (Authority). 77
Admi (Life Is for Living), 87
Admission, prices, 4-5, 15, 43, 64, 253-54
Africa, 16, 55-56, 138, 160, 210, 242, 250
African Advent nre , 210
Afrirrv Oueen, The/l\{)

Agfa, 266

Ajaatitnk (The Pathetic Fallacy), 262
Alam Ara (Beauty of the World),

63-65, 100, 102-3
Alexander Nevsky, 182
Alexandra cinema, 9, 10, 64
Ali, Naushad, 201-5
All-India Muslim League, 116
All India Radio, 150, 170, 199-206
Atnar Desh (My Country), 23, 24
A mar Jyoti (Eternal Light), 85-87
Ambrosio, A., 10
America -India cinema, 10
Anderson, Joseph L., 2, 43, 269
Anjaigaih (Anjargarh), 179
Anna, value, xii
Annadurai, C. N., 171-75
Annayin Anai (A Mother's Command),
261

Antha Naal (That Day), 1)2. 168
Anti-Biahmin movement, 169-70
Aparadhi ( The Culprit), 71, 74
Aparajito (The Unvanquished), 1,219,
225-28

‘‘Approved’' films, 120, 132, 143, 184-99
A pur Sansar (The World of Apu), 1,
219, 220, 226-27
Arrival of a Train , 3

Ass- niesc, language area, 57, 59;

pud net ion in, 107, 192; statistics, 282
Assassination of President McKinley, 9
Associated Films Ltd., 35, 58, 100
Astrology, 169

Aurora Film Company, 107, 216
A.V.M. Productions, 167-68, 175
Awara (The Vagabond), 153-54, 241
A wauls, state, 262, 278-79
Ayodhyecha Baja (The King of
Ayodhya), 83-84
Azaad (A/aad), 168

Bahrain, 250
Bakul (Bakul), 179
Bn lay ogini (Child Saint), 108-9
Banerji, Ribhuti, 214, 226
Bardethc, Maui ice, 2
Banister's Wife, 106
Bavua, P. C., 72-82, 101, 124, 157, 178
Baiun Pictures, 71, 73-74
Bauchet, 267
Bazin, Andre', 219
Below the Sahaui, 210
Bengali, language area, 56, 58;
production in. 63-64, 71-74, 99,

101-2, 107, 177-78, 192; problems,
218-19,23* i’ statistics, 282
Bengal Motion c tore Association,

63, 111, 134, Ln. 200
Beveridge, James, 189
Bhabrr Abhibaktae (Experiments in
Fxpiession). 22, 24
Bhagya Chakui (Wheel of Fate), 78
Bhagyalaxmi (Blessings of Wealth), 73
Bhaktavatsalam, 265
Bharata, 66
Bharat Movietone. 106
Bhasmasur Mohini (The Legend of
Bhasmasur), 14, 20
Bhatt, M. M.,21
Bliatt. S. C., 148
Bhatvadekar, 11. S., 6-7

293

Bhavnani, M. D., 191
Bhownagary, J., 191
Bicharak, 35
Billimoria, E., 33
Billimoria, F., 189
Binaca Toothpaste Hour, 151
Bioscope , T he, 20
Bioscope company, 10
“Black" money, 121-23, 136, 161, 169,
254. 264, 269
Blind booking, 39, 186
Blitz, 246-47

Block booking, 37-39. 132, 147, 186-87
Blocked rupees, 245, 249
BMP A Journal, 82, 134, 136, 143, 151,
178, 188, 206, 209, 224
Bombay, beginning of production, 3-7,
10-16, 29-35; as production center,
46, 55-56, 63-64, 88, 94-106,

144-64, 168

Bombay Film Society, 180, 183
Bombay Provincial Congress
Committee. 118

Bombay Talkies Ltd., 88-98, 102,
112-13, 123-26, 142, 151-52
Borneo, 250
Bose, Ajit, 216
Bose, Asit Baran, 158
Bose. Debaki, 26-29, 70-74, 80, 85,

110, 235

Bose, Mukul, 71
Bose, Nitin, 71,78, 178,213
Bowers, Faubion, 67
Brasillach, Robert, 2
Bright Shawl, 51

British Broadcasting Corporation,

119, 203

British Dominion Film Company, 28,
35, 58, 70, 73-74
British Film Institute, 92, 93
Buchholz, Horst, 247
Budgets, production, 21, 25, 30, 38,

46, 90. 122, 164-65, 188, 217, 225,

233, 261-62, 277

Burma, 8, 16, 38, 55-56, 58, 62, 125,

160, 250, 257

Burmah-Shcll film unit, 189-90
Burmese, language, 102
Burstyn, Joseph, 127, 145

Cabot, Susan, 237

Calcutta, beginning of production, 7,
24-25, 28-29, 35; as production

center, 46, 56, 61-63, 69-82, 107,

112, 125, 132, 143-44, 168, 177-83,
233-34

Calcutta Film Society, 180-83, 213,

217, 225
Cambodia, 250
Canada, 182

Cannes festival, 1, 2, 154, 196, 219, 228
Capitol cinema, 7, 32
Capra, Frank. 238
Carnet dr Bal, Un, 182
Censorship, 40-54, 105, 132-34, 148-49,

1 80-81 , 206-1 1 . 275-76, 279
Central Board of Film Censors. 132,

143, 199, 208-9, 224, 248
Central Film Library, 181
Ceylon, 8, 38, 55-56. 58, 62, 74, 150-51,
203-4,211,250. 253
Chalalal (Movement), 225
Chandidas (Chandidas), 71
Chandralekha (Chandralekha), 165-68,
175-76

Chandraprabha, 119
Chaplin, Charlie, 37
Char Anketi (Four Eyes), 125
Chatterjcc, M. D., 178
Chatterjee, S. C., 74
Cherkasov, N., 149-50, 183, 238
Children’s Film Society, 197. 254, 268
China, 126-27, 238
Chronicle, Bombay, 126, 246
Cinematheque Franchise, ii, vi, 214-15,
274

Citiematographe, 205
Classic cinema, 7
Coimbatore, 99, 101, 168, 253
Columbia Pictures Corporation, 38, 147
Co-production, 89-94, 238-49
Corinthian theatre, 8, 62-63
Coronation cinema, 14
Criticism, film, 47-48
Czechoslovakia, 182

Dahater Hathe (In the Clutches of the
Dacoits), 277
Damle, V. G., 83, 85
Dance, 65-69, 148-60, 265
Dance of Shiva, The, 10
Dara (Dara), 209

Das Gupta, Chidananda, 168, 180,
183.213, 274

Das Gupta, Hari, 182-83, 189-90, 240
Dcko, 266

294

Demon Land , 167
Denmark, 10, 36
Desai, C., 103

Devdas (Devdas), 72. 74-76, 82 99
148,154,157
Devi, Chaya, 73
Devi, Indira, 162
Devi, Kanan, 73, 81
Devi, Lalita, 162
Devi, Sabita, 162
Devi, Sita, 90-93, 162
Devi (Goddess), 219, 227-29, 266
Deitoted Wife , 32
Dhaibcr, K. R., 83

Dharti Ke Lai (Children of the Earth)
151, 153

Director, 1 12, 145, 258, 260, 262
Distributor, 138-40, 175, 181-82,211 16
Diwakar, R. R. t 135
Do Bigha Zamin (Two Acres of Land)
154-56

Documentary, 8, 105, 117-18, 120. 131
135,184-99.267.271-73
Double version, 93, 99. 128, 179
Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam (Dra vid-
ian Forward Movement) or
D.M.K., 171-75

Duniya Na Mane (The Unexpected), 86
Dushman (Enemy), 125
Dutt.P. B., 25
D utt, Sunil, 158

Eastern Film Company, 117
Eastern Film Syndicate, 30, 35, 58
East India Film Company, 99-101, 107
Edinburgh festival, 152, 189
Egypt, 249

Elphinstonc Picture Palace, Calcutta, 9,
62

Emelka Film Company, 89-92
Emgeeyar Pictures, 172-73
England, see Tnited Kingdom
England Returned, 25-27, 70
English, language, 103, 111. 170,

174-75, 195
Esoofally, A., 8-9, 64
Essanay, 37

Excelsior cinema, 10, 32

Excelsior Company, 35

Excuse Ale, Sir , 70

Export, of Indian films, 1, 16. 34, 60,

69, 94, 141, 143, 151-54, 160, 220,

234, 250-53, 261

Export Promotion Committee, 234
Extia suppliers, 162-64

fail banks, Douglas, 21, 44, 104, 172 174
Fathclal, S., 83, 85
Fatima, Begum, 103
Federation of Western India Cine
Employees, 218
Fieldei. Lionel, 1 19, 203
Fiji Islands, 160

Film Advisory Boaid, 120, 186 189
272-73
Film d'Ait, 9

film Enquiry Committee, 135^13, 185,
196-97, 223, 245, 263, 269. 277
Film fare, 98

Filin Federation of India, 143, 187
Film Finance Corporation, 140, 142,
223, 277
l ilmindia , 223

Film Institute of India. 265, 277-78
Films Division, 132, 186-99, 202. 229-
30, 239-40, 267-68, 271-74
Film Seminar, 197, 201-2
Film society, 180-83, 274-75
First National Pictures, 38
Flames of FleJt , 28, 70
Fo) tune’s Mask , 52
Fox Film Company, 93
France, 2. 36-37, 39, 182

Gaiety cinema, Bombay, 5, 6, 9, 10
Gandhi, Mohandas. 26-28, 42, 89, 96,
98, 111, 117-18, 129-30, 170. 246-47
Ganesan, Sivaji, 2" 1-59, 261, 278
tiunga (Ganges), 2‘

Gangavatai en (Des* nt of Canga), 21
Ganguly. D., 22-27. 42, 70, 73-74
Gemini Studios 165-68, 175, 179
General Pictincs Coiporation, 35, 58
Georgi Eastman House, vi, 71, 85,

92, 165

Germany, 10-11, 35-36, 39, 182, 249
Ghatak, Ritvvik, 262
God of the Sun, lb
Godse, N„ 129, 247-48
Gohai, 31-33, 105-6
Gotama the Buddha , 188, 196
Great Britain, see Unitec Kingdom
iffilh, Richard, 2
Guarantee Film Company, 35
Gujarati, language area, 57, 59;

295

Gujarati, language area (Continued)
production in, 103, 106, 192;
statistics, 282

Gunehgar (Gunehgar), 209
Gun Sundari (Why Husbands Go
Astray), 31-34

Hague, Alex, 38, 42
Hamlet , 105

Hansuli Banker Upakatha (Folk Talcs
of the River Bend), 225, 263
Hara Gouri (Hara Gouri), 26
Harrison, Edward, 218-19, 228
Heera Film Company, 35
Hepworth, Cecil, 12
Hindi, language area, 56-58; produc-
tion in, 63-65, 88, 93, 99-107, 164-65;
disputes, 169-75, 268; statistics, 282
Hindu, relations with Muslims, 26,
48-50, 116, 128-29
Hindu , 96, 103-4

Hindustan Filin Company, 19, 21, 30
Hindustani, language, 57, 63
Hindustan Photo Films Manufacturing
Company, 266
Hong Kong, 2
Hungary, 182

Hunterwali (Girl Hunter), 101

Huston, John, 183, 217

Hyderabad, Nizam of, 24-26, 48, 70, 130

Imperial cinema, Bombay, 10, 30
Imperial Film Company,, 63-61, 100,
102* 3, 117-18

Imperial preference, 40-42, 53-55
Impossible Mrs. Bellew, The , 51
Independence, 128-36
Independent producer, 114-15,

122-24, 136-38, 185-90
India '57, 239-41 , 249, 265
Indian Cinematograph Act, 48, 180
Indian Cinematograph Committee,
40-55.61, 136, 161,223
Indian Documentary, 183, 190
Indian Express, 177, 268
Indian Kinema Arts, 73
Indian Motion Picture Producers
Association, 19, 111, 134, 248
Indian Movietone News, 120
Indian National Congress, 26-28, 42,

96, 116-21, 125-27. 131, 170, 206
Indian News Parade, 120, 184

Indian People’s Theatre
Association, 151
Indian Topical Company, 117
Indira, M. A. (Indira, M.A.), 103
Indo-British Film Company, 25, 35
Indo-China, 160
Indonesia, 160, 250, 251-52
Information Films of India, 120,
131-32, 191

International Motion Picture
Almanac, 257

International Newsreel, 46, 47
Iran, 102, 107,250
Irani, A. M., 64
Italy, 2, 10, 36, 182, 238
Ivan the Terrible, 182
Iyer, A. V., 52

Jagadish Films. 30, 35
Jagirdar (Jagirdar), 103-4, 115
Jagte Raho (Keep Awake), 155
Jaipur (Jaipur), 195
Japan, 2, 125-27, 144, 182, 238,
251,257, 269
Jashn, 68
Jassy, 133
Jatra, 67-68
Java, 8, 58
Jayshree, 145
Jazz Singer, The, 55, 61
Jelsaghar (The Music Room), 219, 226
Jhanak Jhanak Payal Baje (Jangle,
Jangle, Sound the Bells), i 49
Jis Desh Men Ganga Iiehti Hai
(Where the Ganges Flows), 262
Journal of the Film Industry, 118,
123,129,200

Journey of Dr. Kotnis, The, 126-28,
145-46

Kabuliwala (Merchant from Kabul),
225

Kalidasa, 13, 50-51, 63, 66-67
Kali Film Company, 107
Kaliya Mardan (Slaying of the
Serpent). 19-20
Kalpana (Imagination), 168
Kamaraj, K., 175

Kanchanjanga (Kanchanjanga), 219,
230-32

Kannada, language area, 57, 59;
production in, 101, 107, 110, 192;
statistics, 282

296

Kapoor, K. K„ 251-52
Kapoor, Priihviiaj, 152
Kapoor, Raj, 94, 152- 55, 237,
241,258,202,278
Karlovy Vary festival, 154, 155
Karma (Fate), 93-95, 200
Kashmiri, language area, 57, 59;
production in, 192; production
statistics. 282
Kathahali, 08

Keskar, IV V., 185, 187, 199-200.
210-11,247

Kcymer, 1). )., ad\ei tising agenc >, 180,
212-13,217,235
Khajmaho (Khajuiaho), 190
Khan. Mehhooh. 1 15, 252, 200
Khemka, R. V., 107
Khote, Durga, 81, 87, 102
Kinematograph Renieis' Sot ietv Ltd ,
214,257

King and 1 , The, 210
Kissing, 4 1, 50, 200
Knight, Arthur, 2
Kochi i 1 °05 00
Kohinoot Film Companv, 31
Kolhapm, as pioduc tion cent* i,

82-81, 99, 104

Krishna Film Companv. 1 17
Kiishna /annul (I lit' Biith of
Kiishna). 1 1

Kiishna I eel a (Di.tni.i of Kiishna), 109

Kiislinan, N. S., 172 71.230

kiislmaswamv. M. V., 210

Ki ishnatone, 100, 1 I 7

Kudita Pa\an (I he llungn Stones), 225

Kulkami, S. U , 85

Kumar, \shok, 94-97

kiimai. Dili}), 71. 94, 157. 108, 2 »8, 2<8

k uma i , l t tarn. 202

kuniaii. Meena, 108

Kunlut, 80

Lahoi conditions, 100-til, 109
Lahoi.iloiv. 18-19,47, 111. 100, 233
I. tidy I cat/m, l hi', 20
Lae n mile. Call. 01 , 191
Lahai lie. N. C.. 25
L.ilitha, 202

Language, piohlems. 55 00; au-as,
58-59, film pi tulut lion. In
language. 282

lankti Dalian ( I lie Burning of
Lanka). 11-10, 18,45

Leela , 08

Life of Christ, 9, 1 1

Light of Asia, The , 39. 42, 90-92

Loews, Inc 37, 147

London (lirl Dinners, 3

I iOtus Film Company , 25 -20

Loves of Sola nun ho, The. 275-70

Luhin, S , 10

Iain; 'ie, L. and A , 2-3

Madari, ] F , 7-9, 21-25. 39. 58, 02

Mat Ian, |. J., .39, 01 02

Mad an Theatics Lttl , 30, 39. 43,

40. 58 03, 09, 191
Madhuii, 102

Madonna's S enet. The. 133
Madias, heginning of pioduc tion, 35,
40, 50, 99-101; as pioduc lion centei,
107 9, 125. Ill, It) 1-77
Madias Lulled Aitistcs Cm potation,
107 9. 119, 105

Mahahhauita , 12.58, 91, 145
Mahaiasluia 1 ilm Companv. 83
Majestic cinema, Boml>a\. 9, 01
Malava, 55-50, 58. 107, 100, 250
Malavalam, language aiea. 57, 59;
pioduc ti )ii in. 101, 107 10, 192:
statistic s, 282

Alanasa nnalislifinani (In I)t fense of
’lonoi), 125
Manila festival. 1 . 195
Manitanuni Mnganmm (Man and
Beast), 209
Manoiama, 102
Manzooi (I.el It Be). 179
Maiatln, langua< * area. 55 50. 58:
jiioduc tion in. 99. 101 (>, 19".
statistics, 282

Mai bets fm Ymn films. 250
Mtnriage T<nr r , 7 he, 20
Master, IL, 31
Mali. ui am, 173
Mat hi hi, 133
Maya (Illusion). 79
Maver. Ai thin , 127. 145
Mehhooh Piuihn uons, 2 17, 200
Meivappan, A V . 10/

Melody of Love, The, 55, 02 ^
Motio-Coldwyn Mavei. 117,211
Meveis, Ruby, see Sulo hana
tmeiva Movietone, i» ^ 0
lVlmi'tix of Infoi ination and Broad-
casting. 135, 197-99, 202-3, 223,

297

Ministry of Information and Broad-
casting ( Continued )

228, 243, 246, 248, 273
Mir, Ezra, 191, 198
Miss 19)3, 33
Mitra, Suhrata, 221
Modern Theatres Ltd., 109-10
Modi, Sohrab, 105
Moneylender, 139
Montevideo festival, 195
Moscow festival, 226
Mosfilm, 236, 241-44
Mother India, 260
Motion Picture Producers Combine,
101, 165

Motion Picture Society of India,
111,149,184

Motion Picture Year Book of
Asia, 251

Movietone News, 120
Mudaliar, N., 35
Mughal-e-Azatn , 279
Mukherjee, S., 94
Mukti (Liberation), 80-81, 154
Munna (The Lost Child), 151-52
Munshi, K. M., 173-74,207
Munshi, Lila\ati, 207
Museum of Modern Art, New York,
180, 217-18

Music, 65-69, 71, 133, 150-51, 200-6
Music director, 121, 261
Muslim, relations with Hindus, 26,
48-50, 1 16, 128-29
Mystery of Edwin Drood. 10
Mythological film, 11, 13-14, 20, 35,
85-86, 94-95, 107, 262-63

Nadodi Mannan (The Vagabond
King), 172-73
Nanook of the North, 181
Nargis, 153, 162, 237. 241. 260
Nasik, film production, 18-23
National Film Archive, London,
vi, 92, 93

National Film Theatie, London, 274
Nationalization, 269-70
Natyasastra, 66
Naujuvatn, 1 18

Naya Safar (New Venture), 179
Naya Samar (New YVoild), 126, 151
Naya Sansar International, 242-43
Naya Sansar Productions, 151

Nehru, Jawaharlal, 96. 116-17, 126-27,
129, 170, 197, 238-40, 257
Newsreel, 6, 46-47, 105, 117-18, 120,

131, 135, 184-99, 267
New Theatres Ltd., 69-81, 85, 94,

98-99, 102, 112, 124-25, 135, 142,
179,213, 264

Nichols, Beverley, 105, 123
Nine Hours to Kama , 244-49
Nordisk, 10

Novelty theatre, Bombay, 3-5
Nutan, 158

Ojapali, 68

Opera cinema, Calcutta, 62
Opera House, Bombay, 31
Oriental Pictures Corporation, 35
Oriya, language area, 57, 59;
pioduction in, 107, 192;
statistics, 282
Orphans of the Storm, 48
Osten, Franz, 90, 92, 94

Pabst, G. W., 92
Padmini, 262
Painter, Baburao, 83
Pakistan, 74, 116, 129, 132, 143. 154,
177,233, 249
Pakshiraja Studio, 168
Pal, Niranjan, 89-92
Panchtupi: A Village in HV.W
Bengal, 189
Paragon Pictures, 261
Paramount, 37, 147, 244
Paranjpye, R. P., 6

Parish pat ai (The Touchstone), 219, 226
Pardesi (The Tiaveler), 211-44, 249
Pat lie, 8, 10,38,46
Pathe-India, 38

Pathet Pam halt (Song of the Road),
ii-iv, 1 , 214-29, 234-35. 277
Patil, S. K„ 136

Paxmlakhodi (Pavalakkodi), 100
Pempudu Koduhn (Foster Child), 209
Persian, language, 102, 107
Peyton Place, 246-47
Phalke. I). G., 10-23, 30, 36, 42,

45,83, 111

Phalke, Mrinalini, 19-20
Phalke, Saraswathi, 12, 18
Phalkc's Films, 21, 83
Philippines, 257

Photo-Play Syndicate of India, 35

298

Pilot Project, 19.5
Playback singer, 164, 261
Poland, 182
Polo, Eddie, 104
Poona, 82-83, 99, 100, 164, 278
Poona Races ’ 98 , 7
Prabhat Film Company, 82-88, 94,
98,100,102,110,112,115,123,

135, 142, 164, 278
Prakrit, 57

Professor Kelpha’s Magic, 16
Pronin, V. M., 242-43
Pudovkin, V. 1., 149, 183, 236, 238
Punjabi, language aiea, 57-58,

pioduction in, 103-6, 192; statistics,
282

Puran Baghnt (Tlu* Devotee), 71 72
Purdah , 5-6

Queen’s Putin at Piocession ,9
Quota, 39, 54-55, 251

Jla bi n d ra n a i h T ago re ,219, 229 3( )
Rackn. i' Milton, 237
Radha and Krishna, 19 1
Rad ha Films, 107
Radhakrishnan, S., 258
Radio, 119. 150-51. 170, 199-206
Radio Ccvlon, 150-51
Ragini, 262

Rai, llimansu, 42. 89-98. 113-1 1
Raiagopalachari, C. 1.., 170. 175-76
Rajah Hnrisi handia (King Ilaiis-
chandra), 11-18,21
Ra)kamal Kalainanclir. 127. 145-16.
119, 160,279

Rajputani (Rajpulani), 33

Rainachaiidran, M. G.. 172 71,258

Ramadhyani, R. K., 198

Ramayana, 14, 58

Rangac liatiar, I>. 0 T., 41

Rani. Devika, 88 98, 113. 124, 162. 197

Ran jan, R , 201-2

Ranjit Mm ictonc, 32-31, 105 (i,

117, 191

Rao, Ranga, 261
Rashonion , 168

Ray, Satyajit, ii-iv, 1,71, 180-83, 190,
21 1-36, 2 19, 254, 262. 261. 266,

274. 280

Ray, Sukumar, 211-12

Ray, IJpendiakishoi , 212

Razia He gum (Ra/ia Begum), 26, 18

Red di, B. N., 110
Red Lion Films, 245^46
Regal cinema, Calcutta, 62
Rehman, Waheeda. 232-33
Renoii, Jean, 182-83, 189,213, 240
Report of the Film Pnquiry
Committee, 136-43, 245
Report of the Indian Cine mat oguiph
Committee, 42

Re pi t on an Pnquiry into the

(conditions of Paboui iti the Cinema
Industry in Bombay State, 160-61
Richie, Donald, 2, 43. 269
River, The, 182, 189. 213, 238, 240
R. K. Films, 152, 154-55
RKO Radio Pictures, 147
Robinson, l)a\id, 257
Robson, Mark, 245-47
Rossellini. Roberto, 238-10
Rotha, Paul, 2, 93
Rox, Ritual, 74, 151 58, 178, 188,

241, 264

Royal Talkie, 111

Rupee, dollai value, \ii

Riisn.i cinema, Calcutta, 24-25, 27

San i (ire, 25

Saga? Mouetone, 100, 103, 115, 124, 191

Saiga I, K , 74-75

S 'em, 99, 101. 109,253

Saliinke, \ , 14 1.5, 83

Sampalh, E. V. K , 174

Sandoxv, Raja, 100

San Flautist o festi\ al, 1

Sangect Natak Akadami, 197

Sanskut, 57, 66. *70,205.268

' itiniketan, ...» >.98, 110, 212.2 U)

Sant 'J'uhaunn (- t 4 ukaiaiu), 8.», 88

Sanyal, Pahaii. 78 79

Saiaswati Cinetone, 106, 117, 118

Saio|a, Baby, 108-9

Sash , Tma. 78

Savitn (Saxitri), Phalke xeision, 14;
Bombay Talkies xeision, 91-96;
otliets, 9 1
Sneen, 248
Sea Bathe) s, 3
See! a (Seel a). 71
Sekai , A. K.. 166

Scl/nick Golden Lame 1 Tiopliy, I
Semenox , M. N., 238
.sen. Asit.225,262
Sen, Hiralal, 7

299

Sen, Mrinal, 262
Sen, Suchitra. 262
Set petit. The, 3

Seshadri v. District Magistrate,

Ta n jore, 1 84-85

Setu Bandhan (Bridge Across the
Sea), 21

Sexfa Sudan (Service Home), 110
Shah, Chandulal, 20-34, 100, 105-6,

140, 237
Shah. D. J., 20

Shakuntala (Shakuntala), 145-48,

277, 270

Shankar. Ravi. 217, 221
Shankar, Udav, 168
Shantaram, V.. 82-88, 101. 115,

126-28, 135. 144-47, 140, 160,270
Sliarda Film Company. 106, 117
Shaima, Kidar, 72, 75, 178
Shaw, Alexander, 120
Shiraz (Shiraz), 02
Shri 420 (Mr. 420). 153, 155
Sikander (Alexandei), 105-6, 152
Singapore, 8, 16, 107, 125, 250, 253
Sinha, Tapan, 225, 262-63
Sircar, B. N., 60-72, 135
Sircar, J. C., 25
Smirnova, Maria, 241
Snows of Kilimanjaro , The, 210
Social films, lise of, 20, 31-34, 86-87.
96-07, 105, 107-9

Society fut the Prevention of l : nhealthy
Trends in Motion Pictuies, 207
Songs, 65-60. 133, 148-60, 200-6,

25/, 270

Soul of a Slave , 35
South Indian Film Chamber of
Commerce, 111, 131
Spain, 240

Srinivas Cinetone, 111
Stai, dominance of, 31-34, 46, 1 12,
121-24, 138-40, 162, 164, 172-74,

207. 243, 257-50, 268
Star of the East Films, 35
Statesman, 47-48, 190, 268
Stepmother, The, 2d
Stratford (Ontario) festival, 1
Stree (Woman), 277, 279
Studio, as produt fion unit, 18-20,

111-15

Stunt film, 21 , 104
Subbalakshtni, S. 1)., 107
Subrahmanyam, K., 100, 107-0, 125,236

Subtitles, 43, 50-52
Sudan, 250
Sudraka, 66
Sujata (Sujata), 156-58
Sukarno, 159

Su loch ana, 32, 34, 42, 103, 162
Sultana, 36
Sumatra, 8, 58
Sundaram, T. R., 101, 109
Suresh Film Company, 35
Sic an g, 68

Symphony of Life, 195

Tagore, Rabindranath, 23, 25, 63, 66,
88-80, 1 10. 179, 212, 225. 228-30
Taj Mahal Film Company, 35
Tamil, language area, 56, 58;

pioduction in, 64 -65, 100-11, 102;
statistics. 282
Tamilnad Talkies, 110
Tanganyika , 210
Tarafdar, Rajen, 225, 262
Taxes, 130-32, 141, 181,263-64
Teen Kanya (Three Daughters), 210,
228-20

Telugu, language area, 56, 58;
production in, 61, 1 00 -11, 102;
statistics. 282

“Temporal) ” cinema, 255 -56
Tent cinema, 7-9, 216
Textiles, 180
Thailand. 250
Theatre. 7-8, 12-13, 65-68
Theatre in the East, 67
Thief of Bagdad, The, 4 1
This Out India, J04
Tin aw of Dire, A, 91-94
Thyagabhoomi (Land of Sacrifice),
100

Times of India, 3-5, 267, 260
Tolly wood, 62

Topicals. 21, 46, 105, 117-18, 120
’ Train A n hung at Bombay Station, 7
Traveling cinema, 7-0, 68, 107
Truman, Many S., 236-37
Twentieth Ceniuiy- Fox, 120, 147,
238, 241-46, 275
Typist Gill, 32, 31

Ufa, 01-02
UNESCO, 1 14, 204
Union, 161, 161

Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
2. 125-26, 128, 149, 151. 153-54
182,234

United Artists Corporation, 147
United Kingdom (also England, Groat
Britain), 2-3, 10-12, 26-27. 36-42
48, 52-54, 69, 88-93, 105, 107, 109
116-21, 124-29, 131, 140, 151 ,52
170, 180, 182.213,220,252
United Nations, 273
United States of Ameiica, 1-2, 10,
35-40, 47, 53-55, 61-62, 64, 144-50,
159, 180-82, 190-92, 207-9, 217-18
220, 234, 236-38, 244-52, 257, 259, 269
l T niled States v. Paramount et ul., 147
Universal Pictures Corpoiation, 38, 55,
61-62.147,191,244
Uui\cisity Filin Couiuil.275
Untamed, 210

Untouthahilil), as film theme, 96,

109, 1 56-58
l T i ban, Chailes, 10
Urdu, language, 57, 63, 192

Vaitaltmantta (Yaiiabmantia), 133-31
Yaishnava movement, 29. 67-68, 71
Vane ou vei festival, l
Yande Malhatam (Honor Tli\
Mother), 110

Vasan, S. S., 165-67, 175-77, 187
Yaiihini Pictures, 1 10, 165
Vel Pictures, 1 1 1

Venice festival, 1-2, 85. 195, 225-26
Vidyafjathi (Yidvapathi), 71-73
Village in Tuwamoie, 189
Yitagraph, 5, 10

V) javaniliimala, 74-75, 157, 162. 177

Wad a, Homi, 101
Wadi... J. B. Tl., 104-5. 120
Wadia Movietone, 104-5
Wai, effects on film indiishv. 29-30,
36-38, lln-28, 113
Warner Biotliets, 38, 1 17, 244
Wat a nig the Gulden, 3
Watson's I Intel, 3- 1
West Bengal, government. 217-20, 277
Wheeler , Monioe, 217
White, Peail, 104

H7/o / s l\ ho in Indian l ilmland. 61-6
Widow, in film, 87. 96. 108
Williamson, fames, 9
Writer, for film, 69. 123-24, 164,

192, 213, 260

Young India Him Gompanv, 35

/.ils, Paul. 189
/uheida, 102- 3

301